It was a full quarter of an hour later that Lancelot's body moved slightly.
The mysterious Tiflin had left directly using teleportation magic, but the spirit perception of the human knight, akin to eyes that had stared directly into the harsh sun, did not return to normal until this moment.
The revelry at the camp continued, with the mercenaries eagerly fiddling with their new equipment, boasting to one another about how many battles they would win and how many heads they would sever with such weapons.
But Lancelot had long understood that nothing was free, and everything had its price, especially in the dreadful plane of the Abyss. These fellows were so content and justified in accepting these obviously ill-intentioned gifts, either out of extreme confidence or extreme stupidity, and Lancelot felt that the latter was more likely.
