In the empty grand hall, words they couldn't understand echoed.
Suddenly, a flash of white light, and the Demon Swordsmen's head rolled to the ground, the headless body collapsed, startling the remaining two, their faces turning pale.
They were clearly of Holy Rank, they were strongmen
But now, they were like mice being toyed with by an old cat. A profound sense of powerlessness surged in their hearts.
"What was he chanting? A spell? Why is the spell different every time? Are there different spells with different effects?"
"No idea!"
At this moment, the two Holy Rank mages stood back to back, cautiously looking around. But Lette didn't suddenly appear; instead, he walked towards them from the front, sword in hand.
"To explain, that's not a spell, but a selection of poems from my hometown.
My Holy Artifact has a little quirk.
It only shows its power when revealing its miracle in front of people.
If it isn't satisfied, it will appear to work without really trying."
