"Hmph, Alfred! I never expected you to come looking for me the moment I got back. You really never learn, you bastard!" Solam clenched a cigar between his teeth, one hand gripping a Bloodhulk's grotesque maw and dragging its head before him before viciously blowing a stream of bluish smoke into its face.
The thick smoke struck the Bloodhulk's face—already entirely devoid of reason—and burst apart instantly before slowly dissipating into the air.
Solam took the cigar back between his teeth and tossed aside the Bloodhulk, which was already thoroughly dead. Then he turned toward the nearest magic array, where the Trism brothers were fighting. Of everyone present, the Trism brothers were comparatively the weakest, so Solam planned to support them first.
The moment Solam turned away, the Bloodhulk lying on the ground instantly crumbled into ash.
Judging from the aftermath of the battle, Solam had dealt with those Bloodhulks without much effort. In truth, that was only natural. Sometimes even Solam felt that fighting with a divine artifact like the Flail of Ages was practically bullying. If he were not pressed for time, he might actually have put the Flail of Ages away and played around with these monsters for a while. But now? No time!
"Damn..." Pestilen, who had watched Solam's battle from afar, was nowhere near as relaxed as Solam. He carefully calculated the time: from the moment the Bloodhulks he had sent out engaged Solam until the battle ended, less than a minute had passed. Ten specially modified Bloodhulks had all died without even lasting a full minute...
"It seems Solam's combat strength needs to be reassessed, especially that flail! That thing is definitely a divine artifact! Even a Bloodhulk will be killed or crippled if it is struck by it, and it cannot even