In the blink of an eye, the colossal hammer, forged from divine ore and etched with runes older than the kingdom itself, came crashing down.
It weighed tons—its sheer presence distorted the air around it. Now, it was descending directly toward Damien with the force of a falling mountain.
The Blue Hammer King erupted into manic laughter, his voice echoing across the broken skyline like the scream of a dying storm.
This was Seven Strikes of the Blue Hammer, the pride of the kingdom. A legendary battle technique passed down through generations, honed with blood, sweat, and ruthless precision. It wasn't just power—it was history, legacy, and raw destruction refined into movement.
And the King had mastered it.
Well, at least the first three strikes.
But that was all he needed—or so he believed.
His voice cut through the rising winds, laced with a sadistic fervor.
"Did you really think you were close to victory?" he sneered, thunder rolling behind his words.
