"Well, I guess it's time to end this."
The black steel of the blade whistled through the dead, colorless air as Haoran brought the sword down, aiming the dark tip straight toward the shivering hollow of the boy's collarbone.
CLANG!
A sharp, deafening sound of colliding iron rang out across the barren plateau, loud enough to crack the surrounding ridges.
Ye Fan's trembling fingers shot up from the gravel with blinding, unnatural speed, his bare palms clamped together like an iron vise, catching the descending edge of Azathoth mere inches above his throat.
Sparks of cold silver light exploded between his skin and the obsidian blade, sizzling like drops of fat dropped into a blazing fire.
The boot pinning his ribs down was shoved upward by a sudden, terrifying heave of raw power, forcing Haoran to take a step back, frowning.
He still holds Azathoth, but Ye Fan also grabbed its blade.
Just then, Ye Fan stood up.
