Haoran licked his lips, the motion mirrored by the grotesque, weeping mouths that lined the left side of his body.
The copper tang of primordial blood mixed with the heavy, metallic stench of Korgar's volatile, hyper-compressed Saint energy, creating a sensory overload that would have driven an ordinary cultivator to madness.
But Haoran's expression remained terrifyingly placid, a mask of aristocratic indifference framed by shifting, non-Euclidean shadows.
At that moment, Korgar roared, a sound that tore through the remaining atmosphere like a physical blade, and swept his hands downward.
The massive, multi-armed silhouette of this mad Saint moved with the velocity of an impending planetary collision, intending to crush Haoran in one fell swoop, to grind the golden youth and the creeping eldritch corruption beneath his palms until nothing remained but a smear of dark grease on the molten bedrock.
