A talk with the mutant king

"...." Pythor stood tall, unshaken, His presence alone radiated supremacy, his gaze locked onto the incoming warships, watching them arrive one after another as if he were expecting a particular vessel amidst the fleet.

The carnage unfolding across the battlefield?

It didn't concern him.

To Pythor, this was inevitable—a predetermined conclusion, merely the unfolding of fate.

He stood directly beneath the purple sun, its ominous glow casting his enormous form in an ethereal light.

The sheer majesty of his stance was undeniable.

Anyone —regardless of allegiance— who laid eyes upon him at the heart of the city would feel an overwhelming urge to kneel.

But then—

A voice shattered his focus.

"It seems your roar wasn't just for show… You did something to your soldiers, didn't you?"

"Hmm?"

Pythor's massive head shifted, turning slowly with an air of absolute arrogance.