Soltar o golpe exige gritar o nome do golpe bem alto

Roland Continent, the winter in the Golantis Mountains is long and unyielding; the snow stretches endlessly, and the surrounding hills, towns, and fields seem to slumber beneath a thick quilt of white.

At the base of the mountains, in a makeshift camp, Zohan withdrew the magical and mental energies he’d used to survey his surroundings. Only after confirming there were no foes lying in wait to ambush him did he settle down, sipping his own stew while leafing through a classic tome of magic.

As on Earth, anything labeled a “classic” proved obscure and challenging. Reading such works required a significant threshold of understanding; only a rare few could lose themselves within and derive a pleasure elusive to most.

“No wonder most mages only achieve mastery after forty. Some, desperate for more years to study their art, even go so far as to transform themselves into undead beings,” Zohan mused, closing his book with satisfaction. “Someday, I’ll become just a skeleton like Ainz Ooal Gown.”

He took another sip of soup and wondered idly whether a skeleton could drink stew, and whether Ainz Ooal Gown could use psychic spells and mind control to satisfy his succubi and similar concerns.

Ah, who wouldn’t want a succubus to solve one’s daily needs?

“Master Mage—”

A young girl’s voice, clear and childish, pierced the roaring blizzard, drifting faintly to his ear. The wards he’d placed along the mountain trail didn’t react; Zohan’s ears twitched, confirming this wasn’t a monster mimicking a human girl’s voice.

“Master Mage!” <