‘Master.’
It was a term used to refer to powerhouses who inspired the reverence of all.
Their very existence was practically the symbol of an era, and they were absolute beings capable of twisting even the laws of nature to their whims.
Powerful enough to sweep away tens of thousands of soldiers single-handedly.
Naturally, the number of Masters had an immense influence on the balance of power across the continent.
One only had to look at what the great powers known as the ‘Three Nations’ had in common.
Only three in the entire world.
Each of the nations called the ‘Three Nations’ possessed one of these exceedingly rare Masters.
In other words, whether or not a nation possessed a Master had effectively become the standard by which great powers were measured.
And so, the glorious list that had remained unchanged for decades was as follows.
The Empire’s ‘Sword Duke.’
The Holy Kingdom’s ‘Saint.’
The Southern Allied Kingdoms’ ‘Archwitch.’
Their names were inexhaustible sources of national pride and symbols of the greatest military force each nation could mobilize.
Yet this structure had now undergone a new upheaval.
Because of none other than the death of the ‘Sword Duke.’
“Hmph. At our last gathering, I thought we wouldn’t meet again for another hundred years at least…….”
“Immanuel…… How could human wisdom possibly foresee the will of the Lord? Moreover, he met his end as befitted a great martial artist.”
The Saint’s tranquil voice followed…