War XXXVIII

The ruins of the Black Sun Sect trembled as Aiden and Ivan stood across from each other. The dark vortex behind Ivan pulsed, its energy seeping into him, amplifying his already formidable strength.

Aiden gripped his Reaper Scythe tightly, its edge gleaming with a dark radiance. He activated Spirit Sense, mapping the battlefield in intricate detail. Every crack in the stone, every fluctuation of energy—nothing escaped his perception.

Ivan sneered. "Still playing the hero, Aiden? You don't understand what you're up against."

He extended his hand, and his Throne Martial Spirit emerged behind him. The massive, ornate throne pulsed with ominous light, its aura imposing enough to crush weaker cultivators with sheer presence. Dark chains coiled around its frame, glowing with blood-red inscriptions.

Aiden scoffed. "I've seen enough of your tricks, Ivan. And I'm sick of your theatrics."