Orc Tyrant

But Diego was disappointed, and there was only an echo here.

Ghosts once walked on these streets, the phantoms swirling in the wind and dust, swaying in the wind of the call sign.

They only existed in the boundary of Diego's field of vision, and every time he wanted to see more real, they would be shredded by the wind again.

Over there, the form flashed by, and the moment his eyes were annihilated in the wind.

There seemed to be three young girls screaming and pulling, and when he turned his head to look, only the dust in the air was left.

He clenched the scorpion-tail chainsaw in his hand.

Going deep, going deep, there is a little bit of pain in there—something, weakened, trapped, and dying almost unimaginably old.

This desolate echo rippled in his mind, depicting to him what seemed to be a cruel imprisoned thing, and that thing had already gone to death a long, long time ago.

On the dusty gravel, the slender figure carefully walked through the bones of the old city, and the wind mixed with gravel continuously brought distant sounds—inhuman voices, desperate screams.

Perhaps this gale played a trick, so that even if he had learned most of the spirit language, he couldn't hear any sentence in the storm clearly.

Trying to understand a single word will only make the rest of the noise more noisy and wipe out all efforts to concentrate.

As he continued to penetrate this poor and weak city, Diego had given up staring at each fleeting phantom, and turned inconspicuously, allowing the wanton wind to arbitrarily fabricate the shape of the phantom.

In the turbulent gust of wind, the dark spires flashed in the corner of his field of vision, and the tall towers pierced into the hostile sky with incredible grace.

Suddenly, he looked back and tried to find Yalid, but saw nothing.

"Arid?"

He exudes his own blunt psychic sensations, but he is not confident whether he can pass the call sign of the violent wind.

"Devil, where are you?"

The resulting echo is only a tighter wind.

He didn't even notice when it left, or did it never exist from the beginning?

As Yalied said before, this is a realm of infinite possibilities, and concepts and cognition are meaningless here.

Even time seems to have lost control.

Diego's throat became more and more thirsty, but he was not slowed down by fatigue.

It wasn't until this time that he noticed that he had walked for more than seventy hours under the endless dusk, and the only thing that could tell the time was the timing symbol on the inner screen of his helmet.

And this number began to become unreliable at the seventieth hour.

It started to pop out numbers randomly, as if it eventually succumbed to the supernatural laws here.

Diego Dia recalled the face of the shadow art Geertai once, so haggard and withered.

He claimed that he had traveled in Hanan for more than ten years, but for the apprentices around him, it took only a few heartbeats for the warlock to reappear from when he left.

Diego suddenly thought, when he stayed here, pacing on the shore of hell, how much time did reality go through?

Witlier's fighting is not extinguished, and he has no more time to waste. If he does not find what he expects in this place and can reverse the situation, then he has to leave quickly.

With such heavy thoughts in mind, he kept walking.

The scarce remnants of the crafting world above the surface have been reduced to the victims of rust and strong winds. He walked through another slow dust-covered street, and his boots ran over ancient rocks.

It might have been a farm dome, where the plant community was carefully taken care of with fertilizer.

Or maybe it was just a public hall with a dome.

Diego tried his best to withdraw his imagination, and forcibly refrained from letting himself think about the phantom of the wind and dust.

After trekking several hundred meters in the useless dust, he felt a curious and nauseous tingling sensation from the ground under his feet, which was beating slightly.

But looking around, only the dilapidated tower of a lost civilization can be seen.

He knelt down and grabbed a handful of red clay. As before, he watched it slip through his fingers, being torn away by the wind.

Nowadays, as seen, it has been continuously polished, worn and lost the pulsation of the past.

Diego took a breath, and then released a faint pulse of psionic energy downward. He didn't feel any response, not even a bit of shock or intuition.

This may only extend to one meter of the surface, or it may hit the core all the way. No matter what, there is a weak, abnormal thing under his feet; it seems that it cannot be touched, and there is only a reverberation of life.

There must be some consciousness hiding below, but it doesn't feel like a living thing.

This aroused his extreme curiosity.

So he increased his psychic abilities, digging down, and searching, but still only the buried void resisted his detection.

With an unwilling reluctance, Diego withdrew his psychic exploration in one fell swoop, returning all his consciousness to his head.

There is a reaction now.

Boom boom boom boom~~~~~~

Even though he cursed his unreliable talent, Diego immediately sensed the turbulence below, something that was digging upwards. It swallowed the sand all the way up, like a cold hound, smelling the aftermath of psychic energy Come.

At the moment of horror, Diego turned around and stood firmly, shuddering in front of the looming sense of distorted despair.

Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to release a wave of rebellious thoughts towards the existence of the claws below-a psionic blow like smashing the fingers of a drowning person to survive.

And that existence only decayed for a while, and after reuniting its strength, it pressed on again.

Its shell pierced the ground, and ferocious emotions poured into Diego's consciousness for an instant, full of cold ferocity, and any other emotions were nowhere to be found.

And there is a sense of incomparable familiarity.

"Well!"

Diego stumbled and retreated in front of this continuously rising fountain of consciousness, struggling to maintain himself in the face of the urgency of its saw bite.

By the time the first giant hand was lifted from the sand, he had already stood firm, and the scorpion stimulus light on his shoulders was ready at any time.

"this is--"

While protecting his consciousness in the face of the splattering invisible hatred, he watched, watching a statue of a death **** struggling to rise from the scarlet soil.

But it cannot stand.

While struggling to stand up, the creature climbed closer, flipping his hands in the sand to find a point of strength.

But it really seems unable to stand up.

Diego watched its crawling, but couldn't find more traces of damage on its shattered plate armor.

Suddenly, long hair like a mane rose like smoke, floating on both sides of its roaring death mask.

The wind swept across, and the hair spread out in all directions, like a slave shackled by the storm.

Diego slowly stepped back carefully, his boots ran over the gravel, and he was already filled with curiosity.

No matter what the limp thing in front of me is, its anger gushes like a halo of psychic energy.

Diego took a step back and continued to examine it carefully.

Suddenly, he noticed the symbol on the chest of this giant. The symbol was so familiar that he had seen it countless times in ancient books.

"Bloodhand Kane! The God of War of my race!"