"I am the Sacred Executor. Monsters and vermin, stand down!"
Cetran's voice was half-lucid, half-crazed as he lumbered after Orson, stumbling over mountains even while being pelted by attacks.
Orson smirked, replying lightly, "I am a god of mortals. No need for you to tire yourself out, old man—I'll personally send you to reincarnation."
Behind him, besides his light and dark Spirit King clones, his remaining illusions unleashed everything they had.
The sky turned into a downpour of Chaos Magic Balls, an apocalyptic rain of A-rank spells that lit up the night like falling stars.
Crit -300,000!
Crit -700,000!
Block!
Miss!
Orson shook his head. Without the Mirror of Folding to lock on precisely, too many of the shots went wide.
It was still enough to one-shot ordinary King bosses, but against Cetran, it was like scratching an iron wall. The damage reduction was savage.