Don't confiscate my identity as a human race

Lanci was finally enjoying himself.

"Since I personally intervened, we can't skip this part either."

Lanci responded with logical intent.

"Well..."

Talia had no energy to refute.

At least in this respect, the Inverted Lord Tiberius was a competent designer, giving the Mirror of Tiberius a function similar to skipping.

But it was limited to scenarios where there was no personal intervention.

Previously, Lanci mentioned that their company's planners didn't want to implement a feature to skip the storyline, and then the planner's mother died immediately, leading to Lanci organizing his colleagues to pay respects to the planner's mother.

Suddenly, fierce flames surged from the ground, the scorching Blood King's Divine Fire engulfed the entire square in an instant, turning this dark space into a crimson abyss.

The scalding high temperature began to broil the body of the Pope.

The Purgatory fire sea that the Pope released beforehand also spread on the ground, indistinguishable whose flames were whose.

"Don't just stand by and watch, all of you come and entertain our noble guests."

Duke Rashar turned his head, casting a meaningful glance towards the horizon, lifting the corners of his mouth into a curve, and shouted to several silhouettes hidden in the bloody mist at the edge of the Blood King Palace Square.

"I guess there's half a second left."

Before Lanci finished muttering, a figure suddenly appeared before his eyes.

A burly man emerged from the mist, his military uniform adorned with gold tassels swaying in the wind. He squeezed a provocative smile at the corner of his mouth, with overwhelming power surging around him, stretching his uniform to the point of tearing.

He thrust out his right fist with the speed of lightning towards the Pope's face.

As the explosion rang throughout the Blood King Palace, Lanci barely dodged the heavy punch.

The Pope's movements appeared clumsy; his one-footed landing seemed hurried and flustered, but the hem of his garment remained free of any dust.

"Ha ha, Pope, are you performing acrobatics?"

The Eighth Ancestor, Somerset, asked as he watched the Pope's comical and exaggerated state.

The Pope would soon learn that the peace of this era was nothing but an illusion.

The deaths of his worm-like companions were destined to be meaningless.

And he would be ineffectually enraged at the twilight of his own life for already having lost the power to contend with the Blood Clan.

Even less did he know that even if he retained Ninth-order power, it would be of no avail, for the Blood Clan had long planted their poison seeds across the world.

"Somerset, even if he has fallen from the peak, he naturally counters us."

A cool female voice came from the bloody mist, with a hint of warning in her tone.

A breathtakingly beautiful female Blood Clan member, wearing a dark purple sheer long dress, gracefully stepped out. The moment she joined the battle, the magic power emanating from Duke Rashar and Marquis Somerset suddenly rose to a new zenith.

"Pope, haven't you killed enough on your journey? We Blood Clan might not have killed as many people as you."

Another voice resonated leisurely.

The bloody mist condensed into shape, and an exceptionally handsome blond man stepped forward. He was dressed in an off-white silk shirt with a velvet vest over it, a peridot bow tied around his neck, and his golden-brown curly hair casually draped over his forehead, slightly covering those ruby-like eyes.

"You've wasted so much of the sustenance we've painstakingly raised. Don't you think you owe us something? Maybe give us a little happiness?"

Marquis Bainhardt, the Ninth Progenitor, spoke in a tone as congenial as a warm and hospitable gentleman, questioning the Pope.

Heratier's prophecy had never failed.

The Pope of the Holy Polante Land Sect, in his twilight, had at most a day or two of life left.

"Pope, why so silent? Could it be that you have already foreseen your own end and are feeling despair?"

Duke Rashar asked, his tone dripping with scorn as he toyed with his prey.

He was extremely eager to witness the Pope's gradual breakdown.

"Not at all."

The White-Robed Pope lifted his index finger and gave it a shake.

"...Hmm?"

Rashar squinted his eyes,

"What do you mean then."

Lankros's response, frankly, was unexpected.

The white-robed figure was silent, nonchalantly too much so.

As if he had become a different person.

From Lankros, there was not the slightest sense of alarm, not even a feeling for the disparity in combat power between the two sides; as if everything were taken for granted. The madness, the rage, not a hint in sight, there was only the composure one savors during an afternoon tea.

And he kept his index finger raised.

Leaving Rashar unable to comprehend his meaning.

The White-Robed Pope slowly raised his hand, and for the first time, took off his mask, his relaxed smile as if it never changed.

"I can fight you all with just one index finger."

He spoke casually through his slender fingers, addressing the four Ancestors opposite him.

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Begging for the monthly tickets at the start of the month!