"It's time for your execution, Malthor," Dustin said coldly, leveling his sword at him.

Cyran swept his staff upward as the arcane sigil slowly pressed down from above, while Terraen cracked his knuckles, eager to jump in.

Just when everyone thought the outcome was decided, Malthor's face twisted into an extremely unsettling smile—a blend of madness, cruelty, and grim resolve.

"Execute me? You think you can defeat me?"

He let out a harsh, broken laugh. His gaze swept over Valindra, Lysander, and Talmor—who were either sealed away or lying severely injured nearby. A glint of undisguised greed and cruelty flickered in his eyes.

"To force me to use this technique... You should be proud."

Before his words fell, he threw both arms wide and began chanting an ancient, sinister incantation that seemed to crawl up from the deepest abyss.

As the chant echoed, the dark gold and platinum glow surrounding him turned pitch black. A surge of evil far darker and more nauseating than dragon blo