Grimoire

The Pervy Sage panted heavily, his gaze locked onto Mitchelle.

He couldn't fathom it.

He refused to accept it.

A mere human had surpassed him in magic.

And worse—a woman.

The realization curdled in his mind, a bitter aftertaste he could not swallow.

To him, women were nothing more than fleeting pleasures, meant to be indulged, consumed, and discarded once they lost their flavor.

"How can such a thing exist? This is an impossibility"

He muttered, his voice laced with disbelief as blood trickled down his body.

The rings adorning his fingers were more than mere ornaments, they were reservoirs of mana.

For mages, the greatest limitation was always their mana.

Once depleted, they became as helpless as infants, stripped of their power.

Azarion had long since found a way to overcome this weakness.