“Later on, I suddenly met someone one night. He gave me a stamp with the symbol of the Moore Group’s wealth and power. It’s the one you took from Drake Moore. Then, the person told me all the martial artists in black robes belonged to me, and I was free to order them around on one condition—” Yarlyn’s gaze hardened without any warmth, his voice growing hoarse by the second. “I must train at least five hundred skilled and determined beings like myself every year.”

Darius knew the former was holding back, but he did not have the heart to wonder why. Instead, the condition shocked Darius so much that his jaw was agape, and he murmured, “How many martial artists in black robes have you trained in the many years that passed since then?”

Upon hearing that, Yarlyn thinned his lips into a long line across his face while staring frostily at Darius.

It instantly made Darius’ eyes narrow to slits. His voice sounded grimmer while he shot some of his golden gaseous life force at Yarlyn. “Have you