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As they looked at the humans in the arena, the Purgatory nobles seated around began discussing among themselves, some curious, others sneering or mocking, and a few showing doubt.
To these nobles, all of whom were at least at the Seventh Demonic Mark, these humans were pitifully weak, with unstable auras and fragile minds.
On the battlefield, any true demon could effortlessly take on a hundred of them, cutting down human cultivators of equal rank like slaughtering livestock. To the demons, it was a mystery how such a fragile race had managed to defend against the empire’s attacks for so long.
Just then, the black gates on the far side of the arena slowly opened. A towering figure, fifteen meters tall, stepped into view. It wore battered bronze armor and wielded a massive spiked club.
The Ironblood Warrior of the Krodo Tribe had a terrifying presence, radiating the aura of a being in the late stage of the Seventh Heavenly Realm. Its body reeked of blood, the stench of countless lives it had already slaughtered.
"I'm betting on the Krodo Tribe to win. Crush those humans into pulp!"
"I want...
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