The Emperor’s Angel of Death

Through the smoke and dust, he walked towards Soshyan with his shoulders lowered, as if he was heading toward the bite of a blizzard.

A jet-black cloak was fastened to the back of his neck by a bony buckle. The huge skull and sharp teeth of a dead beast formed his right shoulder armor, which looked like a Tyrannian.

Without his helmet, Mazar revealed the vicissitudes of the gullies, like a weather-beaten cliff, with a bunch of short gray hair on top of his head.

He doesn't have a beard, his cheekbones are high, the tattoos on his chin resemble an open skull and jaws, and his iron-grey eyes shine like armor, revealing a thrilling spirit.

The warriors under his command were equally wild, their weapons and armors were studded with various bones torn from the corpse.

These soul-like warriors followed the leader, like a flock of birds flying on the air currents brought by the head geese. Many people are not even sure whether the death gods in plastic steel armor will stop.

But in any case, this naked and provocative gesture made all the astral knights angry.

Later, Soshyang's calm voice reached every soldier's ear.

"Stay steady, this is just a bluff, nothing more."

As he said, these death gods stopped and surrounded them in a semicircle.

"Captain of the Astral Knights, Soshyan Ariksha."

Mazar spoke loudly, his voice loud and harsh, like a cold predator.

"My name is Magyar, the captain of the Ascetic Band, the lord of the Death Temple."

The next second, his sickle crashed down.

Soshyang also drew his sword out of its sheath at the same time, faster than most people's naked eyes can catch, like a cloak like a cloud.

Mazar greeted him with a giant sickle.

Amidst the screams of the collision between gold and iron, a shock wave shot out from around the two of them, rolling up a patch of ashes mixed with dust.

Seeing the battle commander being attacked, the astral knights all tried to make a move, but Thor stopped them.

The fighters of the Ascetic Band remained indifferent, and seemed to be used to such scenes.

"Lord Magyar, is this the way you wait for a guest?"

Soshyang hissed, repelling the attack again.

"This is the courtesy of the Warriors."

Mazar grunted and blocked the close-knife.

Although he was so heavy and ruthless in his hand, his movements were no slower than Soshyang, and every attack was very firm, tight, and steady.

"If this can earn your respect."

Soshyang laughed and waved the blade dexterously again.

Confronting a battle group commander was a challenge he had long wanted but couldn't, compared to those past battles that were insignificant.

Following Thor's practice of swordsmanship, he has been eager to have an opponent who can sharpen his skills.

Soshyang let out a low growl, rushed in close, and with one foot, the Sacred Yan sword suddenly pierced Magyar's abdomen.

But just before he was about to succeed, the giant sickle swung across the gear at a tricky angle.

The two weapons drew a string of sparks in the collision and dragging.

"too slow."

Mazar mocked, and then clasped the scythe with both hands and waved it at a very fast speed.

Knowing that the other party was serious, Soshyang also took out twelve points to deal with.

The fierce battle between the two commanders, in the eyes of mortals, only saw the frost blade flying, the thunderbolt hidden in it, but it was impossible to see the true picture.

Every blow of Lord Mazar still splits the mountains and the sea, but Soshyang is like a surfer in the waves, walking calmly in the stormy waves with graceful "dance steps".

This is the "sword dance" researched by the swordsmen of Wang Court Blade ten thousand years ago. So far, very few people have mastered it.

Soshyang's learning time is still short, and he can't even play a tenth of the sword dance in Thor's eyes.

But it is more than enough to deal with such an offensive.

The key to sword dance is to bring the opponent into their own rhythm, with the tip of the sword as the center of the circle, continuously drag the opponent's offense with a semicircular movement track, and always keep the opponent under the threat of the tip of their own sword.

"Young man, swordsmanship is good, who taught you."

Although he has been led by Soshyang, Mazar does not seem to be worried, he is still breathing rhythmically, and maintains a strong desire to attack.

It seems that this battle will soon become an endurance race.

"Our battle group instructor."

Soshyang whispered and waved the holy flames, slashing out a fatal sweep.

Mazar held up the blow, and his heavy boots sank about half an inch into the ground.

When he missed a hit, Soshyang immediately stopped and launched a series of swift blade offensives as he moved on a semicircular trajectory.

The Sacred Yan sword slanted across Magyar's heavy shoulder armor for a time, shaking him for a while.

As time went by, Soshyang's sword became more violent, and the sword clinked into a giant sickle.

"Then I will teach you now."

The legendary hero of the empire, after letting out a dull laugh, began to boost his spirits and approached Soshyan with steady efficiency.

He strode closer, stabilized his feet, and continued to swing extremely destructive attacks.

When the two weapons collided and rebounded, only the afterimages were distorted, and sparks flickered in the air from the two blades~www.ltnovel.com~ Every action declared the majesty of the angels.

Soshyan was surprised to find that his dance steps were destroyed, as if a barbarian suddenly broke into the banquet.

The wild and fierce attack quickly tore the hypocritical mask of civilization.

"Fancy techniques can be used, but don't neglect our own strength!"

Mazar accelerated, and the sickle fell like thunder.

Soshyang took the blow hard, and the tip of the sickle was no more than inches from his head.

"Got it."

After speaking, he flashed his turn around and whirled around Mazar, making it almost impossible to notice how he maintained his balance.

When they collided again, the impact was deafening.

The top leaders of the two battle groups are fighting each other, doing their best in every attack.

Before they knew it, they had been fighting for half an hour.

Soshyan continued to fight, but he needed space to exert his speed. He must break free from the restraints, grasp the initiative of the battle in his own hands, and break free from Magyar's suffocating entanglement.

Afterwards, he mustered all his strength, slammed the sickle, and pulled the distance away.

On the floor where Magyar held up the shadow of the giant sickle, the broken cloak was like the terrifying **** of death in human mythology.

Soshyang stood on the spot, gasping for breath, set his posture, and waited for the enemy to move.

There is only one chance, one perfect chance, to go around the sickle at a precise angle.

It must be perfect, and if it is not perfect, there is no room for turning back.

But to everyone's surprise, Mazar did not move.

He put down his sickle, and a faint cough came from inside the neck guard, and Soshyan soon realized that it was a kind of laughter.

"Enough, enough."

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