"Time for you to die," Max murmured, his voice dropping to a cold, echoing hush as the battlefield churned around him in a storm of screams, clashing steel, and crackling energies.
His white hair lifted slightly as though caught by an invisible breeze, eyes glinting like molten suns as he raised one hand, fingers flexing in a precise, deliberate motion. In the next instant, three golden swords of pure light materialized out of thin air, each one burning with searing luminance, edges so sharp they seemed to slice the very air apart.
They hovered around him in a silent, deadly orbit, radiating waves of destructive power that made the ground beneath his feet quiver and crack. Every blade was so dense with divine energy that even the surrounding void rippled and hissed as though recoiling from their presence.
Each sword wasn't merely light—it pulsed with the deadly precision of Max's Level 2 Concept of Severing Sword, embodying the pure idea of severance, of finality.
