Good times pass quickly; there always came a time to say goodbye.
Lord of Heavenly Slaughter's rehabilitation warm-up had ended before it had even begun...
After sensing the gap between them and vaguely guessing at the other party's terrifying nature, Paquiao had been abandoned in turn by the Great Swarm and Mad Slaughter, then watched with his own eyes as his Sacrificial Master defected to the enemy.
Overnight, the Blood Cleansing Fleet had first been wiped out to the last man, then their lair had been completely uprooted. He himself had fallen into the hands of an Old Ghost who had borrowed a corpse to return to life, unable to live and unable to die.
And before that, his son had died, and he had lost all face...
Forget Paquiao—no one could probably endure that.
He had been completely broken.
Weeping and howling, rolling about like a maggot in the muddy Blood Plasma, he refused to pick up a weapon again no matter how Lord of Heavenly Slaughter tortured him.
He was only short of twisting his mouth and eyes to pretend to be an idiot.
Pretending to be an idiot would not have helped either, or he would have done it long ago!
Until Lord of Heavenly Slaughter could no longer bear the ugly sight. As his expression darkened and he looked around, he could no longer conceal his disappointment.
After reuniting with an old friend in a foreign land hundreds or thousands of years later, at such a joyous and celebratory moment, he should have found an opponent of sufficient weight and strength for a life-or-death battle to his heart's content. Yet he had encountered such a weakling instead.
Killing him would dirty Victory Over Evil!
As for the rest...
He glanced at the Seed of Heroes, which