BANG! BANG! BANG!
Tyran tapped a foot and rapidly accelerated back. This was already the third volley he had sent at Theron, but the latter hadn't moved, and those eyes were just the same.
It was like Theron didn't feel pain or the looming scent of death over him.
He was almost as cold as the valley had been, his emotions bottled up into a world that was undetectable by others, and maybe even himself.
"TYRAN! WHAT ARE YOU DOING!? We can't hold on for much longer!"
Tyran's expression became especially ugly when he heard this. It wasn't that he wasn't trying—he was. But something deep inside was telling him that if he truly went all out and revealed the slightest hint of a flaw, it would be his head rolling on the ground instead of Theron's.
He had never felt this sort of pressure from anyone of the same generation, let alone a kid that was at least seven years younger than him and in the mere Silver Mancy Realm. It made no sense.
