Michael's gaze darkened. He didn't recognize the illusion technique used, but if it was subtle enough to slip in undetected, it wasn't some street-level parlor trick.
"Why wasn't I affected?" he muttered under his breath.
He clenched his fists slowly. The only explanation that made sense… was his intelligence stat.
At his level, it was extremely high.
And illusion-type attacks were spiritual. Mental. The higher one's mental resistance—usually governed by intelligence or willpower—the harder it was to ensnare.
If the caster wasn't much stronger than him, it would take significant effort to pull him into such a trap.
A chill still slipped down his spine.
That meant someone was already here.
Someone powerful.
Not wanting to take any risks alone, Michael immediately summoned Spartan.
The figure of his armored undead materialized in a silent burst of dark mist.
Michael's lips had barely parted to issue a command—
When a voice pierced into his mind like a hot needle.
