That wind blade was too fast.
So fast that even blinking felt unnecessary.
Han Yuchen's neck had already felt a stabbing pain.
It was the chill of death.
He abruptly threw himself backward, as if something had yanked him hard.
"Rip—"
A few strands of black hair drifted down.
Then came a teeth-grating hiss of corrosion.
The granite pillar behind him, thick enough to require two people to wrap their arms around it, silently lost a chunk.
The cut was smooth as a mirror, then black pus began to seep from it.
It had not been cut through. It had been annihilated.
"Hey, hey, isn't that a bit harsh for a haircut?"
Han Yuchen rolled awkwardly across the ground and dropped to one knee at the edge of the arena.
His mouth was still cracking jokes, but the amusement in his eyes had vanished completely.
This was not power a Soul Ancestor should possess.
That corrosive force carried a foul stench that made his soul recoil in disgust.
It was that Solonsen bastard's unique "divinely bestowed" power.
The black-robed man known as the "Death God" said nothing.
Like a puppet on strings, he stiffly turned his neck.
There was no face beneath the hood.
Only a writhing mass of pitch-black mist, with two ghastly green Ghost Fires glowing within it.
"Die..."
The hoarse voice sounded like two bones grinding against each other.
He raised his hand again.
This time, there were ten wind blades.
They sealed off every possible route of escape.
What a nuisance.
Han Yuchen sighed inwardly.
He could not keep acting.
If he kept it up, he really would become a corpse.
The [Star Atlas] inside his sleeve was vibrating wildly, thrilled at the sight of "food."
Since you want to die, I'll grant you your wish.