Dustin took the hit, and he felt as if a mountain had crashed into him. The flame’s impact shattered his barrier, sending him backward. Blood sprayed from his mouth and streaked behind him in a sharp arc.
He crashed onto the white stone floor over 100 feet away, tumbling until his momentum finally ran out. Only after driving his longsword into the ground for support did he manage to kneel on one knee.
The blade vibrated in his grip, its glow nearly gone. Whatever strength he’d just managed to recover was scattered like leaves in the wind.
Dustin’s chest and abdomen felt trapped between ancient ice and hellfire. His soul seemed to be getting shredded by countless fangs, each wave of agony threatening to drown his consciousness.
Malthor’s metal and fire abilities complemented each other perfectly. Their combined power didn’t just add up, but it underwent a complete transformation into something far more deadly.
“You survived 70% of my Metal Void Slash and Soulfire Fist. That’s something you can boast about in the afterlife,” Malthor said coldly, his tone like a death sentence already passed.
He walked forward-each step silently disintegrating the ground beneath him-and slowly raised both hands.
In his left palm, countless hair-thin needles, Platinum Essence-Shattering Needles, flickered with deadly white light that gathered like a swirling nebula. They hummed lethally, locking onto every acupoint and energy channel throughout Dustin’s body.
In his right hand, a dark-gold fireball the size of a human head rotated slowly. Inside it, countless miniature black holes opened and collapsed in endless cycles. This was the core of Malthor’s Great Annihilation Art. It radiated a terrifying suction that could refine everything into nothingness.
The needles would shatter Dustin’s essence, and the fire threatened to consume whatever remained. This was a perfect killing formation, sealing off every possibility of escape or defense.
Grace’s face went deathly pale, her body trembling uncontrollably. The storm of golden needles was about to erupt, and the dark-gold fireball hung ready to obliterate Dustin along with the surrounding space. But at that critical instant, a voice rang out.
An elderly man’s calm voice rang out, yet it carried a power that seemed to calm all chaos in the world. It echoed clearly through the killing intent that saturated the palace, as if it had traveled across endless ages to arrive at this exact moment.
“Infinite Celestial Sovereign.”
Immediately after, a pale cyan light materialized from nowhere in front of Dustin. Soft in appearance yet thrumming with boundless cosmic essence, it rapidly expanded and solidified into a slowly rotating arcane sigil.
Within the sigil, two swirling energies spun endlessly around each other, merging and separating in perfect balance. They radiated a force that seemed to push back everything hostile, untouchable, and absolute.
The Platinum Essence-Shattering Needles, sharp enough to pierce through the void itself, shot toward the arcane sigil like a torrential downpour. Yet they vanished like stones thrown into the ocean, effortlessly deflected, decomposed, and dissolved into nothing by the swirling energies.
At the same time, the dark-gold fireball carrying the core of the Great Annihilation Art struck the sigil’s surface. A gentle yet irresistible force caught it mid-descent, suspending it in the air. Its destructive suction slammed against an invisible barrier, unable to advance even a fraction of an inch.
For the first time, Malthor’s eternally frozen expression wavered. He snapped his head toward the hall’s entrance, his gaze cold and piercing.
Cyran stood at the doorway, appearing from nowhere, with a staff in his hand. His robes fluttered around him, and the familiar gaunt lines of his face were unchanged. Yet his eyes carried a storm of complex emotion as they locked onto Malthor and the nearly-dying Dustin.
Next to him was a child, Terraen, in a red vest and topknot. He planted both hands on his hips, round eyes glaring at Malthor.
He shouted angrily, “Malthor! You shameless old bastard. Just because you’ve lived longer doesn’t mean you can go around bullying the younger ones.
“Dual cultivation of metal and fire, my ass! Getting this worked up beating someone half-dead? Ugh! What a pathetic old man.”
Cyran’s sudden appearance, combined with Terraen’s merciless mockery, hit like ice water thrown into boiling oil. The atmosphere in Elysium Palace instantly turned strange and tense.
Malthor’s face, frozen for countless ages, shifted ever so slightly. A deadly, frigid intent radiated from him, zeroing in on the two at the hall’s entrance. He frowned, eyes flashing with unexpected fury.
“Cyran! And you, accursed one! You were supposed to be hiding in that ruined forest, sneaking by unnoticed, and yet you dare show up here and stir trouble?” he barked.
Cyran waved his staff lazily. His face was calm, but his eyes burned with a mix of resignation and resolve.
“Malthor, stop this madness,” he said. ” Sacrificing fellow cultivators’ essence, energy, spirit, and soul to the Void-Tyrant Dragon to gain power is only going to destroy you, and it will bring untold catastrophe. You’ve already betrayed our original purpose of guarding the seal.”
Terraen stamped his feet and shouted furiously, “Old mud-sucker! You’re the accursed one. You turned this whole island into a hellhole, and now you’re trying to murder people? Just wait. I’m going to knock every last tooth out of your head.”
“Original purpose?” Malthor’s laughter rang out cold and manic, as if he’d heard the world’s funniest joke. “Guarding the seal? Spend eternity guarding this pitiful prison while waiting for it to crumble on its own?
“Cyran, you’re hopelessly naïve. Power alone is eternal. It’s the only eternal thing. Since you both insist on dying, I’ll grant your wish. I’ll use your essence to finally gain complete control over the dragon core.
