The flood continued to fall.
Golden drops rained across the void without pause, flooding the battlefield and slaughtering abominations of the Root in staggering numbers. A single drop was enough to kill a Prima Deity–tier abomination. A few dozen could shred an ArchDeity–rank monster into fragments of rotting flesh and dissipating soul matter.
It killed relentlessly.
The storm showed no signs of weakening, no hint of exhaustion. It felt endless—as though it would not cease until every last trace of the invading horde had been erased from existence.
Robuke's eyes widened with shock and horror.
Individually, those abominations meant nothing to him. They were tools—expendable, mindless extensions of the Root's will. But to forge such a vast army had required the sacrifice of entire Empyrean Worlds. It had taken endless harvesting and meticulous reshaping of life.
He could not allow it to be erased so easily.
