The lingering power of the Glamer Holy Sword refused to fade, still gnawing at its victim's spirit core until the last vestige of life was erased.
Aurek vanished again, reappearing beside another grandmaster-rank powerhouse who was just beginning to chant a large-scale coordinated spell.
The sword flashed—
space fractured—
and the man's divine aspect crumbled like a sand sculpture in a storm.
Deep in the mountains, the two elders of the Crimson Hills—the stout one and the gaunt one—watched helplessly as the grandmasters they had cultivated over tens of millennia were cut down like weeds beneath Aurek's blade.
They saw the imperial army's formations slicing apart their defensive lines, isolating, surrounding, and dismantling their final reserves.
Their facial muscles twitched. Their hearts twisted with anguish.
They had endured the annihilation of their peak master legions.
They had tolerated the near extinction of their master-ranks.
