In the next instant, a dragon soared.
A harsh wind swept through the area, scattering piles of snow and exposing the dirt underneath. Newly budding leaves were torn from their branches and flung through the air. And it didn't stop with just one swing; each movement of his sword unleashed another gust.
"Dear gods…" someone muttered, awestruck by the scene before them. Every time Sylas swung his sword, the air seemed to tear apart, leaving aftershocks that pulsed through the camp. Anyone caught within the range of those strikes wouldn't stand a chance.
'Not even a horseman could withstand that.'
Though Sylas's sword wasn't unusually long, they could feel its deadly aura. It was as if the weapon could cut through both rider and horse with a single stroke, cleaner than any massive blade could manage. And he wasn't even using his full strength—this was a demonstration. If he were truly fighting for his life, those strikes would be faster and even more powerful.
