Darth Malthael reached out and gripped the Soul Reaper Sword.
Very rarely, the chatterbox inside it, the king of arguments, the emperor of the Sith Empire, the beaten dog—in Olegar terms—Marka Ragnos did not immediately leap out and point at his nose to curse him out.
Darth Malthael looked at the sword and bared an incomparably ugly, terrifying grin. At that moment, his entire body was withered, like a skeleton. If an ordinary person saw that smile, they would probably be scared senseless on the spot.
Yet Marka Ragnos remained silent.
"Hehehehe... What, did Olegar beat you mute during this time?" Darth Malthael let out a hoarse laugh.
"I have no interest in someone about to die. Soon, you will join us... Hehehehe. No, perhaps you will not even have that chance. Hehehehe... Don't you know?" Marka Ragnos sneered.
"Even if I die, my soul will still beat all of you up!" Darth Malthael said.
"Clearly, that is not what you truly think. Go do what you must do. Clearly, you already know what you should do." Marka Ragnos gave an unusually serious reply.
"Are you not saying one thing while meaning another, Ragnos?" Darth Malthael struggled to his feet, using the metal hilt of the Soul Reaper Sword as a cane as he made his way deeper into the Valley of the Sleeping Kings.
The terrifying Death Force around him whipped up waves of dreadful gloom amid the yellow sands. Countless resentful souls wailed, and even the massive, shattered statues throughout the Valley of the Sleeping Kings seemed to roar at the sky.
A powerful sandstorm erupted almost out of nowhere. Yellow sand filled the heavens, the sky itself seemed torn apart, and the entire world appeared to turn earth-yellow. Faces could even be seen twisting within the storm.