Just then, the sky split open once more, and four figures descended from the thick veil of clouds. It was Drevon—four copies of him, moving with eerie synchrony—and behind them followed the battered figures of King Magnar, Elarion, and Marcel.
The difference between them was stark. Drevon looked completely composed, his expression relaxed, clothes unwrinkled, not a scratch on his flawless skin.
The same could not be said of the three leaders of the Lost Continent. Marcel clutched his side where blood slowly leaked through his robes, Elarion's shoulder was clearly dislocated, and King Magnar, though still standing firm, had burns streaking across his chest and arm. They looked like they'd survived a disaster.
Drevon looked like he had just taken a casual walk through it.
Even the brutal clash between Aurelia, Kate, Ralph, Garrison, and the Commandments came to a stop.
