CXCVIII. Evil Beheading

Morison said it offhandedly.

Liszt's hand, which was reaching for the cigarette, trembled slightly as he pondered the significance of those few words. The cigarette had already slipped through his fingers and fallen to the ground, as he swallowed hard.

So this was the damn ultimate Boss.

He glanced sidelong at Morison, who, as if nothing had happened, was devouring fruit from a seasonal platter on the train, his insides churning.

After getting rid of that kind of person's close guard, could he really join the battle again?

But these were minor issues.

Why the hell did you get on a sightseeing train, you unlucky bastard? And now you've run into horse bandits?

Liszt took a deep breath, wanting to pick up the cigarette from the ground, but it had already been soaked in the pool of blood and was unusable.

Just his fucking luck.

Two minutes later.

At this point, the front of the train had long since disappeared from view, and all the Magic Puppets had been cleaned up.