Weak.
The astonishment that flashed across Azriel's face made it clear just how rarely she received such an assessment.
Although she was nominally a weapon meant to help her lord compete for the throne of the One True God, as Artosh's closest confidante, Azriel understood that if her lord wished it, the matter would take no more than a thought.
Thus, she strove to ease Artosh's burdens and prove her worth as much as possible.
Before lesser races such as the Phantasma had even appeared, she had already been a nightmare to countless races. From Giants to Dragonia, then the Phantasmal Species, and finally, even the Old Deus had become part of her record of accomplishments.
Even the Dragon King and the God of Victory would address her as the wings of the God of War to show their respect. Yet now, she had actually been branded weak, a designation reserved for lowly races such as the Elves and Dwarves?
"Heavenly Strike!"
Riku, who had already run far into the distance, heard those words that sounded like a sentence of judgment, and his face instantly turned pale. Against that overwhelmingly brutal killing move, which had no way to counter it precisely because of that brutality, even ninety-nine lives would not be nearly enough.
Merely escaping the vortex of energy in its aftermath would probably cost him most of his chances to revive.
He had to play this game with surviving until the god Roland came to save him as the minimum passing requirement.
Just as Riku tightened his grip on his Spirit Garment, desperately racking his brains for a way to survive while awaiting death, no further sound came.
Bewildered, he looked behind him, and his pupils contracted.
Azriel swung her right hand in the sky. When the light vanished