Motan walks very slowly, but whether it's the black haze circulating in his eyes or the war halberd he's dragging on the ground, constantly making a screeching friction sound with the practice field, both exude a suffocating pressure.
Before this, whether getting comboed perfectly by his seemingly supernatural sword techniques or dominated by that Plain Snow Spear during battle, so much so that it was difficult to fight back, Anthony Dubs had never experienced pressure as immense as now.
The figure looming ahead, slowly approaching, doesn't seem human; rather, it's like a battle intent forcibly molded into human form, recklessly emitting a fierce aura every second.
[Evil Skin Technique]!
