The Grandmaster moved forward—unhurried, yet with an air of absolute inevitability.
Each step he took felt like the toll of a funeral bell.
The pressure of his aura crushed the battlefield, freezing muscle, mana, and even thought. Dust and leaves remained suspended in the air, caught in the unnatural stillness. No one moved. No one dared.
He passed the two fallen assassins, his glowing violet eyes barely acknowledging them. Their broken forms tensed beneath his gaze, yet he offered them no salvation—only the confirmation of what they already knew:
They were no longer relevant.
As he walked by, he extended a hand without breaking stride. A ripple of dark energy surged outward. The two assassins convulsed violently, their bodies withering—flesh collapsing into bone, bone into ash—as they were reduced to nothing by his poison mana.
Then he reached the nearest guard.
Still kneeling. Still straining to breathe.
