Racial War; A Cold Helping Hand

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"Oh, your son's dead. Damn, that was quick! I thought he'd last longer. Hmm, I guess I overestimated him."

 

The Demon God's face couldn't turn any darker than it is already, even after hearing Cedric's words.

 

Of course he knew that already. He might be isolated here, but his senses could still spread outside, allowing him to see what's going on. He witnessed the death of his only son, the child that he had so many hopes for, his only successor. His son died in a strange land without reaching his full potential; how could he, as his father, not feel grief about this?

 

And it's not like he just watched as his son was dying. He did his best to save him. He used all means he knew to, at the very least, send even a tiny wave of his aura out of the prison he was in to rescue his son. But it was clear that he underestimated the means Cedric had to deal with him, because not even a sliver of his aura leaked outside.