Battle Royale in the Secret Realm, the Boss Descends! (Monthly Votes, Please)

Whoosh—

A teeth-grating sucking sound echoed through the deathly silent forest clearing.

The crimson Ghostman stood amid a heap of corpses, his chest heaving violently. His tooth-filled maw stretched open at an absurd angle, and the depths of his throat seemed connected to a bottomless abyss, producing a terrifying suction visible to the naked eye.

More than a dozen corpses lay scattered across the ground, all members of the elderly Physiognomy Cultivator's party.

The terror of their final moments still lingered on their twisted faces as white, mistlike energy was forcibly dragged from their seven facial orifices.

These were their souls, and also the essence, vital energy, and spirit they had cultivated over many years as professionals.

The energy converged into a stream, flowing like a long white river into the crimson Ghostman's mouth without end.

The crimson Ghostman narrowed his eyes, greed and pleasure gleaming in his green pupils. Gurgling sounds rose from his throat, as though he were savoring a fine aged wine. Occasionally, his brow furrowed, as if he were not entirely satisfied with the quality of this "wine."

Thud.

As the final wisp of soul was devoured, the last corpse lost all support and collapsed, shriveled, into a pool of blood. Its dull impact sent a ring of crimson ripples outward.

Nearby, the elderly Physiognomy Cultivator known as "Golden Ghosthead" knelt on the ground, burying his head in soil thick with rotting leaves and mud. His hands clawed tightly at the earth, and his body trembled incessantly with fear.

Only when that spine-chilling sucking sound stopped did the old man dare lift his head slightly.

He dared not look directly at the crimson Ghostman, keeping his gaze fixed on the black-haired, clawed feet.

"L-Lord Ghost King."

His voice quivering with ingratiation, the old man ventured, "Was...