“Aaaaargh!”
Berseus screamed as he stood up, rage seething through him.
In his fury, he swung a fist, smashing a water jug and sending shards of plates and food remnants flying in all directions.
“That mongrel dares—dares to defy me?!”
The servants of the Marquis’ household, who had been setting the table, cried out as they covered their heads to shield themselves from the flying fragments.
Finally, after he had destroyed the banquet hall and shattered the heavy oak table, Berseus’ rampage came to an end.
“Get out!”
The terrified servants scurried out of the hall, trembling with fear.
Grrr…
Left alone to seethe, Berseus growled softly, running his hand over his neck.
The chilling sensation of that blade slicing through his neck still felt all too real.
“That damn brat…”
More than anything else, he couldn’t shake the image of that strange boy who had pointed his sword at him with such unwavering resolve.
What happened had happened. But as his chaotic outburst subsided, reality settled back into his mind, flooding him with problems he could no longer ignore.
‘…Now that it’s come to this, my plans are in serious jeopardy.’
He had thought discovering the bloodline of Nebraska would be the end of it. But not only had he failed to kill him, he’d also lost all the Lycanthropes he had stationed in the canyon.
And worst of all, he had lost Bazra, his most valuable vassal.
‘Now, I have no vassal left with the strength to command the entire pack…’
Berseus hadn’t directly bound all the Lycanthropes of the…