That was a fine attack. I received your will.
In a flash, the greatsword, the white light, and the headless swordsman all vanished.
Along with them went one of Fu Qian's arms.
It hadn't been an empty threat. He had burned himself away.
The White-hot Knight's attack had finally poured out in full.
And the consequence was that Fu Qian's entire right arm and shoulder were vaporized, leaving them impossible to repair for the time being.
Just like the wound that had pierced his chest earlier, the damage went far beyond the flesh on the surface.
And the act of cutting off his own head had indeed made that white light purer, and even harder to resist.
He really was a Second Order expert. This seat hadn't suffered a wound like this in a long time.
Taking in his mutilated body and the familiar crystalline texture around the wound, Fu Qian turned and bowed slightly toward the empty space in front of him, offering his thanks.
Though his form had seemed like a projection, and thus not very stable, his combat strength had still far surpassed that of the emotionally unstable Plague Dragon.
And although they had exchanged only a few words, the information he'd gleaned wasn't insignificant.
Seedbed, unclean, blasphemy... Those few words seemed to confirm his earlier suspicion: the knight really had been fighting some kind of entity, and had lost himself in the process.
That was why Fu Qian's earlier words had finally provoked a response—or, more accurately, disgust—driving the knight to try to kill him at any cost.
He just didn't know how this so-called seedbed related to the prison.
It was tempting to assume they were one and the same—that the seedbed was the prison, and the knight had guarded it until he was ultimately