"Go!"
The magic struck Death without obstruction, and he cried out in pain. He stared at the wound in disbelief. The pure-blood wizards surrounding him were equally stunned.
"I... I actually injured a god?"
Before they could process the shock, several more spells landed on Death, piercing the black mist surrounding him to strike his physical form directly.
"We can hit him!" someone shouted. "What's happening?"
Another asked, "Is it because of the golden light?"
The crowd looked at the faint golden aura radiating from their bodies. Their minds raced with theories. As the master of the formation, Sunny Finch sensed a special energy flowing into the array—the source of the golden light. She turned toward the origin and saw a figure standing at the edge of the formation.
He had white hair and a long white beard, looking like any ordinary elder. But Sunny Finch's eyes widened in recognition. He was a Supreme Elder of Kunlun, a figure of immense power who only appeared during grave crises. Now he stood with his hands behind his back, energy flowing from him into the ground, merging with the array, and then redistributing to everyone as the empowering golden light.
Sunny Finch didn't know the specifics of this energy, but she could feel its overwhelming power. Just then, an aged voice reached her ears.
"Child, feel this power carefully," the Elder said, his smile kind but knowing. "If you wish to stand beside that white-haired youth, you must master this. It will aid your future."
Sunny Finch's heart stirred. She began to focus, trying to understand the flow of power, realizing why the Sect Leader had entrusted her with this role.
Meanwhile, after discovering they could actually harm Death, the wizards grew bolder, unleashing a relentless barrage of attacks. The aura around Death grew colder, hostile.
"You insects have truly angered me!"
Death raised his scythe, black mist flickering along its edge. A chilling aura swept over the battlefield, making everyone feel an indescribable discomfort. Dumbledore and the others, being powerful, sensed the anomaly immediately.
"Retreat!" Dumbledore ordered.
Death's scythe slashed down, striking the ground where Dumbledore had stood moments before. The Headmaster frowned—had he misjudged? But before he could dwell on it, a shove sent him stumbling aside.
"Dumbledore, you're getting old," a cold voice sneered. "Can't even see an attack coming?"
Voldemort stood there, having just saved him. From a distance, Grindelwald let out a breath of relief. Voldemort sneered. "Watch yourself, Dumbledore. If you die, no one else will bother collecting your corpse!" With that, he turned and launched another attack on Death.
Dumbledore frowned. He had been distracted and hadn't noticed the scythe's trajectory.
Erwin moved the moment Voldemort intervened. He flashed forward, his wand a blur of motion while incantations coalesced in his left hand. Spells and curses rained down on Death, forcing the god to defend himself. Death's scythe rose to parry, deflecting the attacks. Erwin's initial strike missed, but it served its purpose: it slowed Death's assault, creating openings for the others to exploit.
The wizards seized the opportunity. Spells surged toward Death, landing squarely on him and causing him to stagger. For a moment, it seemed the mortals held the advantage.
Yet neither Erwin nor Dumbledore felt any relief. They knew Death hadn't been truly serious. The chill emanating from the Reaper grew even stronger, a palpable anger that even the most oblivious could sense. Death's body floated higher, black mist swirling violently around him.
"You insects have truly provoked me!"
Death's scythe swung in a wide arc, pointed at a group of wizards. "In the name of Death, I declare you dead!"
As his words fell, faint ripples descended from the sky, touching the edge of his scythe. Before the wizards could react, their lives were stripped away. Their souls were ripped from their bodies, flying toward Death.
Panic erupted. Even Dumbledore frowned at the grotesque method. Only Erwin smiled. As expected, the god couldn't resist using his authority. In fact, the power of gods derived from authority—a means to control rules that transcended magic. Divine power was merely the fuel; without authority, gods were surprisingly limited. But with it, they were terrifying.
Death had just used his authority to instantly claim lives, a method impossible to defend against unless one also wielded authority. Erwin had been waiting for this moment. Without control of authority, killing a god alone was impossible. But Erwin had prepared a trump card.
He turned to the white jade dragon sculpture beside him. Bursts of white light shot from it into the sky, gathering into a phantom silver-white dragon.
"Outer god," the dragon's voice echoed, cold and emotionless as it looked down at Death. "Using external divine authority in the Land of Dragons' Rise... deserves punishment."
Death glared at the phantom. "With your incomplete dragon veins, you cannot kill me!"