On his mount, Gregor Clegane's gaze transformed from fury to surprise.
Magic?!
This person can... use magic?!
That cold white light, along with the inexplicable impact, was definitely supernatural power.
But Gregor no longer had the energy to care about supernatural matters.
He relied on his heavy armor and taut muscles, preventing himself from being caught in the rolling of the warhorse.
At this moment, the Little Giant, at least two meters six tall after donning armor, dropped his lance and retrieved his longsword from the wailing warhorse.
This sword's width alone was as wide as an adult's palm, a piece of steel that ordinary people couldn't handle with two hands, yet for Gregor, it was a one-handed weapon, paired with an iron-clad oak shield.
Twenty warriors in iron-plated armor rushed out of the woods.
Among them, ten were mounted, while the rest seemed to have deliberately opted for a foot battle in coordination with Gregor, who had lost his horse.
