The hilt of the sword was intricately engraved with mysterious markings, a stark contrast to his fair fingers, further accentuating the young man's exceptional elegance and formidable resilience.
As the young man stepped into the main hall, it was as if the air itself had frozen in place. The surrounding noise seemed to recede from him, leaving only him and his dark weapon as the most striking presence in the entire hall.
Upon closer inspection, this young man bore a striking resemblance to Decanus. However, the young man exuded an even stronger aura of gallantry compared to the prince.
Tennyson merely lifted his head, gazing at the young man before him. His brows furrowed slightly as his eyes filled with disdain.
"Who let you out?" Tennyson inquired with an icy tone.
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