Blood painted the battlefield crimson. And yet, the gods still floated. Silent. Passive.
They didn't interfere.
They couldn't.
To do so would be to stoop to the level of mortals. A disgrace. An insult to their divinity.
If you're not strong enough… then die. That's the order of existence.
Many of the dying were high-level cultivators. Experts. Talents of rare races.
But compared to the God of Mana's beasts, they were just actors in a play they didn't understand.
To the eyes of mortals, the battle was a blur—a high-speed, magical bloodbath.
But to the gods, it was all in slow motion.
They could see the flaws in every formation. The weaknesses in every technique.
To them, this was just another lesson in futility.
They had fought the God of Mana countless times.
Every time, it ended the same.
Defeat.
But when their Superior gave an order—they had no choice. Even if it meant shame. Even if it meant death.
They remembered his story.
