Chapter 767: The White Death has spoken
Octavio’s eyes widened in horror. Terror filled every inch of his being as he stared at the incoming blades, realizing there was no way to escape. Death was mere heartbeats away, his body frozen, his soul bracing for the end. The swords were moments from piercing his flesh when—
"Hmph."
A single sound echoed across the land.
It was soft, barely more than a breath, but the sheer power it carried was overwhelming. The blades, mid-air and moments from their mark, shattered—fragmenting into glittering dust that disintegrated before they could touch the earl. But that was not all. The sound reverberated through space like a celestial gong, crashing into Vlad with the force of a tidal wave.
The True Depravita of Wrath was launched backward—hundreds of meters—his body tumbling through the air like a discarded doll before slamming into the earth. Blood spilled from the corner of his mouth as he struggled to regain his footing, stunned by the sheer pressure.
Still gasping from the near-death experience, Earl Octavio blinked and looked up, only to find a figure floating above him—calm, composed, and infinitely imposing.
It was a middle-aged man.
He wore layered robes with long, flowing sleeves and broad garments that suggested nobility, wisdom, and spiritual authority. The fabric was not that of warriors or Vikings but of sages and ancient philosophers. His attire was loose-fitting, ceremonial, and draped like the cloth of mystics who observed the stars and whispered to forgotten gods.
His hair was tied into a topknot, adorned with what appeared to be a ceremonial headdress. Feather-like ties extended from its crown, dancing in an invisible wind. His long, flowing beard and mustache were symbols of age and deep-rooted wisdom. A distinctive scar in the shape of an X cut across his face, a cruel brand that only added to his enigmatic aura.
His stance was firm and grounded. He did not need to move or gesture to assert dominance—his mere presence sufficed. His arms rested calmly beneath the folds of his robe, and yet it felt as though the world itself dared not stir without his permission.
There was no energy radiating from him.