The densely packed runes on Mad Slaughter Saint's body also exploded. This was the divine ability power he had bestowed upon himself, with defensive strength comparable to an ordinary saint artifact—ordinary power could not break through it at all.
But before this punch, those runes could not hold up either. They were even more brittle than tofu.
First, his entire formidable body collapsed. Every inch of muscle, every meridian, even every cell and every strand of hair turned to ash.
Then his soul, like a candle flame beneath a raging storm, was snuffed out by the force of the punch in an instant.
Dead!
Mad Slaughter Saint, that arrogant and boundlessly conceited madman who had declared he would avenge North Nether Saint and make North Nether Saint suffer the grief of a white-haired man sending off a black-haired man, had died just like that.
Ordinarily, a powerhouse at Mad Slaughter Saint's level would not be killed. Even if many Saints surrounded him, he would still have a way to slip away and flee without a trace.
But now, he had no way to escape at all, because the enemy he had encountered was simply too powerful—so powerful that before the thought of fleeing could even arise, he had been instantly annihilated.
In his own estimation, he should have been able to withstand one punch. But Mad Slaughter Saint had clearly overestimated himself. One mistake had cost him his life.
Yet perhaps this had not been a mistake at all. It was merely that Mad Slaughter Saint could never have imagined that North Nether Saint, who had previously only been capable of cutting off one of his arms, had long since become an existence beyond his reach.
Since he could not imagine that, yet still dared come knocking at the door,