The fight lasted for about five hours when finally the beast horde stopped appearing.
Damon stood in the middle of the temple entrance now transformed into a crimson wasteland. Piles of dissolved chitin, steaming venom, and blackened ichor sizzled on the stone floor around him.
The runes beneath his feet pulsed erratically, flickering between venom-green and deep blood-red as if the temple itself was struggling to recognize who truly held dominion now.
He was covered in blood, but not a single wound marred his skin. His shirt was long since torn, his pants barely hanging on, and yet his posture was still upright, composed, even… invigorated.
Five hours.
And he hadn't used a single mana skill. He hadn't even touched his core. Just pure, unfiltered blood essence devastation. A part of him was even disappointed that he wasn't pushed even more, forcing him to test other things.
