The White Death plummeted.
The impact shook the First Layer of Hell to its foundations.
When the White Death struck the ground, the force of the collision forged a colossal crater—so vast it resembled a fallen moon embedded in the infernal landscape. Shockwaves rippled outward endlessly, mountains collapsing and the sky itself trembling under the aftermath.
A wide smile spread across Beelzebub's skull-like face as he gazed down at the colossal crater below. From its depths, he could feel the vitality of his opponent weakening, flickering like a dying star buried beneath stone and ruin.
The Devil Paragon allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction—yet his eyes remained sharp, cautious, and calculating.
His gaze drifted to his own chest.
The pale, bone-like plates that armored his torso were scorched and fractured, white-hot burn marks eating into the dark sinew beneath. The wounds were shallow, but they pulsed with a foreign pain that gnawed at his vitality.
