The black-robed man turned around completely.
Messy hair covered most of his face. His eye sockets were deeply sunken, his skin was almost sickly pale, and the black robe covering his body was stained with long-dried blood and dirt. If not for those eyes that remained disturbingly bright, he would have looked no different from the Failures who had spent years wandering the fringe regions of the First Layer.
Failures... Players who had been trapped on the First Layer for years, unable to complete their advancement trials, forced to watch batch after batch of newcomers surpass them.
And the man standing before him was clearly one of them.
"Zich Grave." The man grinned. "The champion of this year's Chosen Tournament."
His gaze quickly moved past Zich and landed on Tiamant, the greed in his eyes completely undisguised.
