On the dust-choked battlefield, Malcolm raised a hand to stop the restless Balot.
His narrow eyes stared intently at the Longsword buried deep in the ground, narrowing to a slit.
The dense Positive Energy clinging to the blade made him uncomfortable, but what concerned him more was the trace of...
...an aura he never wanted to recall.
"A Dragon... Dragon Descendant?"
As the dust settled and he saw the silver Scales covering Roland's arm, Malcolm's look of absolute confidence froze on his face.
He subconsciously reached for his waist, where a hideous scar remained.
Though long healed, the twisted scar tissue still spoke of the terrifying blow that had caused it.
For a moment, the memory of a Dragon Roar thundered in his ears, making him instinctively take half a step back and bump into Balot's corpulent body.
Just as the Demon from the Nine Prisons was considering whether he should retreat, the thin mist completely dissipated.
