Despite having stepped back two paces, Lancelot's boots were still splattered with blood and flesh from the little demon's explosive demise. He sighed helplessly and curled his lip, tapping the tip of his boot lightly against the ground, his gaze sweeping over the surrounding demons who were watching.
His look was neither cold nor filled with killing intent, yet the demons that met his eyes all felt a chill run through their hearts, involuntarily averting their gazes.
Although that Flog was known throughout the city as a swindler, its combat ability was not weak. Coupled with armor obtained from who knows where, it had become somewhat of a local tyrant in these few streets. It and that sly Quasimodo Demon tended to target newcomers, so nobody had bothered to deal with them.
