William knew Garlend was a jerk, but he didn't necessarily blame the man for resorting to such blatant psychological warfare. In the theatre of war, every tactic was permitted if it led to victory. If words could unsettle an opponent before the first blow was even struck, then words were as lethal as any spirit ability.
"Time to continue my tour," William muttered, physically shaking off the encounter as if brushing dust from his shoulders.
He threw the memory of Garlend behind him. If he were about to face one of the truly elite teams—a group like Ro's, for instance—then he would be genuinely preoccupied, consumed by the strategic calculus required to win.
However, his gut told him that Garlend's team was nothing more than a collection of loudmouths and empty bravado. They weren't formidable enough to warrant a second thought, let alone a place in his worries. They were a distraction, not a threat.
