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The reality, so unfair that it felt almost absurd, surged in like a nightmare.
Even after eight Masters poured in everything and unleashed a full-on assault, the Death King shrugged off the damage. Even if he hadn’t recovered, it wouldn’t have mattered.
Minutes of chain bombardment left no lasting harm on his ectoplasmic body. The ground had sunk by over a hundred meters from the aftershocks, yet that frame towering over five hundred meters had only settled to about his knees.
The only reason he had displayed the Grand Art of Soul Separation was simply to flaunt how meaningless his enemy’s resistance had been.
—It is not too late. Lay down your swords. Kneel and submit. Then, you, too, shall be saved.
No one was taken in by the Death King’s sophistry. However, after feeling that overwhelming difference in power, losing the will to fight was inevitable.
With despair clouding his eyes, Valter muttered, “The Clyde Empire… was a nation that should never have existed …”
They couldn’t win. If that were all, Valter might have met the end with stoic calm.
There was a fact that all who reached the peak of the martial path knew. Once one made struggle their vocation, being defeated and dying to someone was a natural conclusion.
One cannot forever win and cut; the day will come when they are beaten and cut. The problem here was that the end Valter had braced himself for was his own...
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