"Well, when was the last time we met? Fifty years ago?"
Mephistopheles' tone was unsettlingly light, as if the entity before him were merely an old friend rather than the embodiment of Death itself.
A sly smile played at the corners of his mouth, and his hands were slightly open, his posture far too relaxed for someone facing Death, resembling instead an acquaintance making small talk in a tavern.
Devereux stood to the side, his heartbeat almost stopping.
What... what on earth was going on?!
His gaze was locked onto the tall, wolf-headed entity whose pitch-black figure was like a torn curtain of night, completely out of place in reality.
The surrounding space seemed distorted by its mere presence, and the air was thick with a suffocating, ancient aura.
Chapter 358