In the ruins of the imperial tomb, the blood battle continues.
Twilight has descended, the sun has set behind the western hills, but this place, full of blood and shredded flesh, remains as bright as daylight.
All because the crimson firelight illuminates the night sky.
The figure wielding the halberd, engulfed in flames, still hovers in the air, overlooking the multitude below, while on the ground, the once-arrogant Golden-Winged Roc has its wing severed, and as for the giant, there is hardly any good flesh left, almost flayed alive.
But before that halberd fell, the Golden-Winged Roc had already passed a hand over the wound on its arm.
Flesh sprouts twisted and multiplied from the stump of the arm, forming a new limb in an instant.
And the colossal giant also tenses its body, causing its damaged, bloody flesh to become increasingly resilient.
