Sheldon and the other sect members had long since scurried to the far edges of the battlefield.
They watched, trembling, twin fires of dread and, yes, rising hope flickering in wide eyes. Their lord appeared, unbelievably, to hold the upper hand.
Minute by minute, the weight on Jared's shoulders grew heavier, his breaths shorter, his swings a shade slower than the instant before.
Soul Devourer's cultivation ran deep as night. His demonic essence seemed bottomless, and his veteran cunning allowed him to spear through the tiniest gap whenever Jared shifted style.
Worse, every black-green ripple of the demonic technique carried a whispering soul attack that kept scratching at Jared's mind, dulling focus, bleeding will.
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