"Toxic Skin!"
At the center of an ocean-like vortex of energy, Korklau wore a savage expression, his seaweed-like hair hanging to his ankles. A piercing roar erupted from his mouth, like countless ghosts screaming in unison.
In an instant, terrifying spell fluctuations surged from his body. Countless twisted runes lit up across his corpse-pale skin, writhing like earthworms.
Great swathes of dark green light "fell" from Andariel's body. The thick, syrupy radiance began corroding space the moment it touched the air.
It hissed and sizzled.
The once-stable fabric of space now resembled a painting splashed with strong acid, its colors mottled and peeling, even exposing the deep black layer of turbulence behind it.
Even through the distance and the protective spell array, a sensation of "dissolution" crawled along everyone's gaze and onto their eyeballs, making their hearts pound with overwhelming dread.
The devastation on the battlefield was reflected in Dago's pupils.
Shattered bones carpeted the ground beneath Andariel's feet. Jagged, deathly white fragments lay scattered everywhere, wisps of black smoke rising from their broken ends.
That had been the trump card he once took pride in-the winged, four-armed bone giant that had withstood [Winter Star in the Palm] in the first round without shattering.
Now, it was nothing but wreckage strewn across the ground.
Dago's gaze trembled, and the muscles at the corners of his eyes twitched.
Korklau might have been arrogant, stupid, and utterly insane, but the malice rooted deep in his soul and his mastery of necromancy had unquestionably placed him in the top tier.
Who was this man?
For a necromantic wizard, the destruction of a bonded undead servant-one cultivated through painstaking effort and nourished with the flesh and blood of countless living beings-meant more than a loss of combat strength. It tore at the soul itself.