With every collision between the two, the Holy Light from the former's body would flow to the latter, becoming a part of him.
The warhorse of Albite had long since dissipated, and in his usually indifferent but resolute eyes, fluctuations appeared.
These fluctuations were both his gradually weakening offense and his no longer steady footsteps.
When even the light of the Holy Flame was sucked away by the opponent upon taking a step forward, his psychological defenses finally crumbled.
"This is impossible!"
He roared.
No longer an angry lion, but rather like an abandoned, old, and useless hound.
The Holy Light betrayed—no, abandoned him.
The boundless Holy Light surged towards that bizarre skeleton, condensing a five-meter-long sword blade on the casually picked-up longsword in Zhuo Yang's hand.
As he swung down the sword, Albite gave up his struggle.
But the blade merely stopped at his forehead, never slashing down.
For the Holy Light—it was abandoned.
