Warriors will die if they charge.

With Trish, this block of ice, around, Marcus felt an extra sense of peace while sleeping. It's human nature to be near a comfortable place.

While he was asleep, he unconsciously tried several times to hug the mixed-race Zhuo Er, whose body temperature was far below that of ordinary people, but was slapped away by a hand and then given a cold reprimand.

"Behave yourself!"

Finally, when he woke up the next day, he rubbed his sore eyes and turned his head to look at Zhuoer, who was still sleeping soundly.

If she doesn't breathe on herself, Trissy is quite pretty, but if she doesn't breathe on herself, she becomes the illusion seen outside the tent...

Marcus felt a chill run down his spine, thinking it was simply impossible!

With his good mood and the presence of gambling guru Hedges by his side, he felt incredibly confident.

All in! Superior-tier card pool.

He stared at the blue, superior-grade roulette wheel for a while, feeling uneasy. This was a rare-grade voucher, earned after enduring over a hundred sword strikes; what if…

Could I draw something better?

Marcus recalled how, when they were moving yesterday, he grabbed Trish's hand and asked her to go buy food.

Those were absolutely flawless hands, with smooth skin, clearly defined joints, rounded nails, and a cool, refreshing feel to the touch.

More importantly, these hands represent unparalleled luck. Zhuo'er has never lost a game of cards. Every time he and Bading review the game, they suspect she cheated, but cheating requires at least getting a card...

But Trish didn't touch her cards at all, playing with her cards face up, and still managed to crush the gambling king.

Come on, Trissy, lend me your little red hand...

All in, legendary roulette! This is definitely going to be a winning start.

As the pointer spun, Marcus stared intently as it glided across the gray area that symbolized emptiness, silently reciting to himself.

Hurry up, hurry up, no, no, no, slow down, slow down!

Congratulations! You have won the legendary talent "Grand Prize in Tongue"!

[A Grand Gift in the Tongue: Language is an art. Poetry, love words, mourning, speeches... The world has such a wide variety of language uses, yet you know nothing about any of them. Your awkward and clumsy speech makes the listener laugh.]

If this person is illiterate and does not know poetry, public speaking, or eulogy, does that mean he is not worthy of mastering the mysteries of language?

Rather than using resounding provocations, insults, and curses to demonstrate outstanding linguistic skills and a unique attitude to the world.

No one, nothing, and no being can refuse your challenge to a duel. When a goblin hears your provocation, he will have the heart of a dragon, bursting forth with boundless courage in extreme anger, and losing his mind in a fit of rage.

Language is an art, and we are the true masters of Fauvism! — Ulfric Birdtongue

Skill Details: Your taunt skill is greatly enhanced, allowing you to taunt any race, even if you haven't learned the target's racial language.

If the target is successfully provoked, they will be continuously affected by the "Gift of the Tongue" until the end of the battle, reducing their defensive capabilities and making you their primary target.

What is this? Why would I, a refined, easy-going, and well-mannered young man, receive such a foul-mouthed gift?

In my past life, I was a knife user, only pinging carry players occasionally during team fights. I liked to engage in verbal battles via mic, but I never played in Zaun!

Wait, Ulfric Birdtongue?

Marcus recalled some notes from the Warrior's Handbook.

Warrior's Handbook, Article 55: If we can't cheer and mock, what good will our years of hard-earned strength be? What could be more fun than stepping on an enemy's corpse, drinking a sip of ale, and loudly cursing him for being less powerful than his goblin grandmother? Nothing, nothing.

— Ulfric Birdtongue, who died from poison after offending his maid.

Trish slowly woke up from her sleep. Before she even opened her eyes, she felt her left hand being grasped by a rough and strong hand.

He was very excited, but I don't know what he was excited about, he was just sighing and complaining.

She waited for about five minutes, her eyes widening as if they were copper bells, but Marcus remained unchanged, sighing and clenching his left hand tightly.

"Ahem." Trish coughed twice and said coldly, "How long are you going to hold on?"

"How long? You're staying in my house, of course I can hold you for as long as I want. Do you think you're the mistress of this house and I'm your servant?"

"?" Trissy turned her head and looked at Marcus, who was staring in disbelief, with a puzzled expression. She forgot to mention that her left hand had been held.

"No, I mean, what meaningful thing can you, a half-drow, do all day besides wandering the streets like a goblin spying on other people's lives? Do you think the combination of a short-lived freak's distraction and a drow elf's coldness will turn you into a useless person who only likes sweets and fruit?" Marcus covered his mouth, thinking to himself, "What's going on? I didn't use any skills on Trissy..."

No, the Great Gift in the Tongue is a talent, like the Speed ​​Bump and Theropod Breath, it's a passive effect! I can't control it.

"Did you take the wrong medicine, Marcus? Why are you so irritable this morning?" Trish said calmly, her face expressionless, her icy blue eyes slowly turning red.

"My temper doesn't have Lady Hakis's tone..." Marcus pressed his hands to his mouth, tightly covering his uncontrollable speech.

Can you give me something useful?

What I want is a charming, eloquent, and humorous tone that girls will fall in love with at first listen, not a foul-mouthed person!

Triss narrowed her eyes, a blood-red light slowly swirling in her pupils. She didn't react immediately; this was the first lesson she learned in the Underdark: don't let anyone's words provoke your anger.

"Are you done?" she asked, her voice colder than ice that had never been seen in Linhe Town before.

Marcus released his hand from his mouth, took a deep breath, and prepared to offer a sincere apology, but Trish spoke a little faster than he did.

Triss sat up, leaned against the bed, and began to tidy her long, silvery-white hair:

"Your snoring last night sounded like a lava lizard gnawing on a rock. I can tolerate your high temperature, your terrible cooking, and this broken bed, but your sleeping posture is just awful. At least five times last night, you tried to touch me. I resisted the urge to cut off your fingers. You should be grateful."

Marcus opened and closed his mouth.

He was saying that it's human instinct; if you're sleeping next to an air conditioner, you can't help but touch it.

But what came out of his mouth was something else entirely: "Gratitude? I don't understand. A half-drow who ran away from the Underdark, lying in Emma's ice coffin, I initially thought she was an elegant and dignified sleeping beauty, but it turns out she's a fool who hides a knife under her pillow, thinking that this will give her a little sense of security."

Trish's silver hair trembled slightly in the morning light streaming into the room, and the icy killing intent in her pupils seemed about to overflow.

She slowly reached under the wheat pillow and pulled out a sharpened dagger.

"I admit, your sarcasm is quite amusing. I didn't expect you to be so eloquent; I hadn't noticed this talent before." Trish pointed the dagger at Marcus.

"Marcus Nolfitz, I'm giving you two choices: one, beat me up; two, get out here and make breakfast right now."

Marcus turned around, his back to Drow, looking completely at ease, but his mouth never stopped:

"Come on, come on, Lord Drow, I know you've been wanting to kill someone to vent your anger for a long time. After all, staying in a dilapidated house must be very stifling for you, right?"

Instead of the expected punches and kicks, Trish's icy hand slowly rested on Marcus's neck.

She noticed that Marcus's face was full of surprise every time he spoke, and he seemed unfamiliar with everything he was saying.

"There's something strange about this house. You big idiot, you wouldn't talk like that."