"Hmph, given our age and current cultivation, we're no weaker than Braydon Neal was back then. What's there to be afraid of?" These young people displayed an arrogance beyond measure, daring to compare themselves to Braydon, the unparalleled Northern King.
How could they even begin to compare themselves to the Northern King?
"Kill them all!" With his hands clasped behind his back, Braydon's eyes gleamed with icy resolve and murderous intent.
"Yes, sir!" Maddox Johnstone stepped forward, the weight of his divine realm pressure spreading.
The arrogant youth's complexion paled, succumbing to the overwhelming force.
"Extreme divine. Who are you?" he stammered in terror.
"Go ask satan!" Maddox's left hand twitched, conjuring forth a pitch-black sword—three feet and three inches of dark, frost-edged steel, known as the cold sword.
With a motion as graceful as the Milky Way, Maddox swung the sword, severing the arrogant youth's head.
