On the scorched earth of the Northwest Region of Nanwantina, a pure updraft constantly makes the flames dance, casting ripples of light into the silent night, as a man's voice echoes into the stillness.
"Are you going to fight me?"
It was a soft murmur as potent as the thunderous decree of a heavenly edict.
Lanci's gaze of transcendent pity swept over Solomon and then towards the decaying alchemical beast. It seemed he did not regard them at all, focusing only on the movements of the wind, speaking his mind.
In every sense of the word, one thing was clear -
No matter who fought him, the outcome would be the same.
"No, Loren, you can't kill me..."
The operation of Solomon's magic power, The Saint of Destruction, halted as though attempting to completely conceal his presence and existence. His features gradually darkened.
He observed the battlefield.
