From now on, you have no more ties with the Pestilence Clan. If you're content with being a monster, then just keep at it; maybe you'll find another Wolf Person willing to wipe your ass for you.
I'm tired, Lame Claw.
After bellowing, Tear Flesh gestured wearily with his hand, signaling that Lame Claw could get lost.
The corpse constructor hobbled away, and as silence returned to the top of the Wizard Tower, Tear Flesh gazed at the Wand of Creation in his hands.
His aged and murky eyes were filled with an indescribable longing.
"Treasure... ah, the treasure of my clan..."
Tear Flesh caressed the metallic magic wand in his hand.
A creepily tender look filled his eyes, and as the window opened, an armored Bipedal Dragon was already waiting amid the uneasy swamp breeze.
Hugging the metal magic wand to his chest and carrying a red bucket, Tear Flesh mounted his Flying Dragon, looking like an old migrant worker making a getaway with his bucket.
