"Young Master!!"
Primod's voice cracked in sheer horror as he watched his lord flung through the air like a broken doll. His heart sank, his veins turned cold—because even his lofty status as a World Cataclysm would mean nothing if his master fell. His orders had been absolute, unshakable, carved into his very soul: the heir's fate is yours, Primod.
If Kazarin's arm were severed, his own arm—and the arms of the heir's closest kin—would be severed. If Kazarin bled to death, then they too would bleed, their lives extinguished with his. Failure was not just death; it was damnation for an entire lineage.
BAM!
Kazarin's body slammed into the ground like a meteor, striking with such force that several of his followers were dragged down by the impact. Dust and stone exploded around him, while his companions tumbled in a heap of groans and curses.
