Extraordinary Pedigree.

Chapter 1124 Dwarf Jokes (8K+)

For Vulcan, today was just another ordinary day in Solania's countless days of being hunted.

The mountain winds of Silver Paradise remain cold and pure, and holy light slowly flows among the clouds. Yet, among these mountains, which are regarded as a pure land by ordinary pilgrims, another group is moving swiftly.

That was the hunting force of the Church of Moradin, composed of Warforged Priests, Rune Judges, and Royal Court Oath Warriors. At the heart of the team was a high-ranking Soulforged Priest, clad in heavy armor engraved with oaths and wielding a holy hammer forged in the embers of the Soul Forge.

Behind them were dwarf warriors from different clans.

The Iron Oath Clan, the Crimson Anvil Clan, the Deephearth Clan—Vulcan names are found in every volume of the Book of Hatred in the Dwarven Royal Court.

Vulcan stood at the end of a broken mining bridge, with a slowly churning lava valley behind him and a neatly advancing phalanx of dwarves in front of him.

He didn't pull out the hammer immediately, but looked down at his still faintly glowing gauntlets, as if to confirm how much longer his body could hold out today.

A rune warrior in the front row roared as he raised his shield: "Heretics! In the name of Moradin, your flames will be extinguished today!"

I want to ask you something.

His tone remained calm: "If sharing skills is a sin, then shouldn't the furnace itself also be sealed off?"

No one answered.

“If allowing more dwarves to live would be an affront to the order,” he continued. “So, are you standing here today to protect your people, or to uphold an old rule written on a stone tablet?”

A young Oath warrior couldn't help but growl:
"Stop using your sweet words to cover up your sins! You damned creature, the great Moradin gave you the gift of divine arts, allowing you, a mortal, to access the arts, but you have turned your back on him, blasphemed the Lord God, and defiled the arts."

Vulcan glanced at him; his gaze wasn't sharp, but it was impossible to look away.

"Everything I have comes from my adoptive father, not from that high and mighty dwarf god."

After a brief silence, the runes lit up, holy light burned, and the hunters no longer hesitated.

The battle broke out.

Vulcan finally raised his warhammer, his movements steady and precise. When the warhammer fell, there were no exaggerated light effects or extraneous roars, only a dull and solid impact that echoed through the valley.

If the dwarf warriors who stood in his way were hit head-on and could still stand after being struck by the hammer, even if they only staggered but did not fall, he would not pursue them further.

After they withstood his attack, all that remained were broken shields, shattered arm bones, and shattered armor, which was enough to force them out of the fight. This was also his mercy; out of consideration for his adoptive father, he refrained from further bloodshed.

He didn't even glance back at those figures who were smashed into the ground with a single blow, their chests caved in and their skulls shattered. Death had occurred, so he let it happen. There was no need for guilt, nor any sense of pleasure; he simply accepted the outcome.

This is the standard he set for himself.

He was neither a murderer nor a merciful person; all his actions were in accordance with his own conscience and were for the sake of "self-improvement".

This is the way of life that his adoptive father taught him. His adoptive father's earnest teachings can be summarized in four words: Love your father and yourself.

His adoptive father always said that Vulcan's soul was too noble, behaving like the Virgin Mary... no, the Holy Father. His adoptive father always taught him to be a little selfish, otherwise he would suffer sooner or later.

His adoptive father's words ultimately came true; he was punished by Moradin's iron fist for his selfless contribution to open source.

After experiencing multiple deaths, Vulcan's ability to maintain this unique self-respect and avoid extremes is itself a kind of unconventional extreme.

If most people had the same experience as Vulcan, they would have stopped eating beef long ago.

So Vulcan really is... good in the literal sense.

The silver battlefield had not yet completely subsided, but the sky had already changed.

Above Solania, the ever-changing, polished metal-like silver dome was forcibly torn apart by some higher being, and a heavy pressure that almost made the mountains bow down poured down through the crack.

It was not simply power, but a presence mixed with war, oaths, and divine authority—an order that could not be questioned or resisted had descended.

The flames of war and the order coalesced in mid-air, transforming into the form of a true deity.

Dumasongyin, son of Moradin, the dwarf god of war.

Vulcan stopped, looked up, and did not back down.

"you again."

His voice was as deep and steady as ever.

He had fought against the other's avatar once, and that battle ended in mutual destruction.

Now, what stood before him was no longer a projection descended to the material realm, but the true self, bearing complete authority and a divine crown. The halo symbolizing the status of the God of War hovered behind Dumasongyin, with layers upon layers of runes and sacred fire circulating within it; merely looking at it made Vulcan's breathing heavy.

Dumasongyin's gaze swept across the battlefield, glancing at the dwarf warriors who were not yet dead but had lost their ability to fight. A hint of undisguised coldness appeared between his divine brows.

"That's really just womanly compassion."

His voice was like a hammer striking the world itself.

Vulcan offered no explanation.

He simply planted his warhammer in the ground and whispered a call.

The next moment, what responded to him was neither a prayer nor an external force, but a projection of his own existence—[Avatar of the Overlord - Vulcan].

The air suddenly became scorching hot, and a giant shadow rose up from the ground behind him.

It was a figure that seemed to be sculpted by mountains and furnaces, as tall as the main tower of a dwarf city, with broad shoulders and backs that could support the entire rocky plain, and muscles that looked like steel that had been repeatedly forged, layer upon layer of strength and endurance.

His skin had a dark red metallic sheen, like an iron billet that had just been taken out of the furnace but had not yet cooled. His eyes burned with a steady and intense flame, without madness, only a continuous and inextinguishable heat.

Ken went all out from the start, unleashing the unique Dominion Domain from Vulcan.

Yes, Vulcan's avatar possessed a simple domain during the Overlord stage, a domain accumulated through numerous deaths and resurrections.

A deep, ancient chant flowed slowly from Vulcan's mouth—the voice wasn't high-pitched, but it carried the resonance of iron and fire, like an echo refined from countless forging processes:
"This body is the furnace, and the blood is the fire."

"The blades I have seen and the weapons I have forged have all been in my hands."

"Not for killing, not for glory, but only for protection and to bear."

If the world needs weapons—

"Therefore, this place is the origin of smelting."

The field has been fully expanded.

The gray sky replaced the silver dome, and an endless wasteland stretched out beneath our feet. There was no vegetation, no buildings, only land that had been repeatedly scorched, cooled, and scorched again.

The ground, hills, and even the air are filled with, floating, and piled up countless weapons—longswords, warhammers, spears, shields, broken blades, and unfinished iron blanks. They come from different eras and different tribes, but they all bear the same mark: they were once forged, witnessed, or used by Vulcan.

The name of this realm echoes amidst the sounds of flames and iron—[Simple Realm: Ten Thousand Forged Wasteland].

The dwarven war god stood in the center of the gray wasteland. The god's figure appeared exceptionally stable in the light and shadow of the domain. To him, this world supported by the will of Vulcan was just an unfinished workshop.

His gaze slowly swept across the distant, undulating wasteland, looking at the weapons stuck in the earth and floating in mid-air—longswords like a forest, warhammers like hills, and broken spears humming in the wind, as if responding to their master's call.

Then he laughed.

There was not a trace of appreciation in that smile, only undisguised contempt.

"Fake."

Duma Songyin's voice was not loud, but it resonated throughout the entire area, like the first echo of an anvil being struck.

"Crude fakes, cheap imitations, they haven't even mastered the art of craftsmanship, yet they dare to display this garbage and call it their domain?"

He raised his hand and casually pointed to a battle axe stuck in the hill.

"You think that stuffing the weapons you've ever seen, touched, and used into this wasteland counts as being in the field of forging? This is nothing more than a scavenger's collection, scrap material in the corner of the workshop that even apprentices are too lazy to remelt."

His gaze returned to Vulcan, his tone becoming increasingly sharp:
"Humans are just humans. Even if they steal the art of forging, they can only imitate the outline and will never be able to grasp the true core. They can't even master the heat, let alone the craftsmanship and aesthetics of forging. Your so-called field is nothing more than piling up enough failed attempts to try to cover up the clumsiness with quantity."

The instant he finished speaking, Vulcan and Vulcan simultaneously raised their warhammers.

There was no roaring, no arguing.

Only action.

The Overmind's warhammer was raised high above his shoulder, while Vulcan himself gripped the handle firmly; their movements perfectly overlapped at a certain moment. The next instant, the wasteland trembled.

A dense array of weapons were simultaneously activated.

Longswords stuck in the ground pulled themselves out, their blades glowing with runes of different colors. Some blades were covered in frost, enough to freeze blood with a single strike; others had fiery red light flowing down their spines, leaving trails of fire that scorched the air with every swing; broken spears reassembled in mid-air, possessing armor-piercing properties, designed specifically to tear through heavy armor; heavy warhammers carried a shockwave field, enough to shatter bones and internal organs even with a mere glancing blow.

Vulcan stepped forward, and Vulcan moved forward in sync, their hammers falling simultaneously.

On the wasteland, thousands upon thousands of weapons responded simultaneously, transforming into a steel torrent that swept across the heavens and earth. Swords rained down from the sky, axe blades rolled and advanced along the ground, carrying destructive properties against divine armor; some weapons disintegrated on their own during flight, splitting into dozens of fragments that blocked retreat routes from different angles; and there were also weapons that had been repeatedly improved by Vulcan, which automatically adjusted their shape as they approached their targets, specifically targeting the structural weaknesses of the divine realm to attack.

Steel, fire, frost, and tremors intertwined, like an out-of-control furnace collapsing towards the dwarven god of war.

Duma Songyin did not retreat even a single step.

He snorted coldly, raised his foot, and stomped down heavily.

"Okay."

His voice suddenly became deep and solemn, carrying an unquestionable authority.

"—This is the realm of the forger."

The next moment, his domain unfolded.

The gray wasteland was forcibly torn apart, and layers of structures surged out from the ground, sending the entire world back into the true furnace.

Intense golden-red light flowed from the void, and the air was filled with the unique scents of mithril, adamantite, star iron, and countless rare materials.

The sky was no longer empty, but transformed into an inverted giant furnace, with interlocking rune halos, and the forging process itself was solidified into laws.

The name of the domain is revealed in the divine echo—[Crown Domain: Divine Forging Furnace].

Countless weapons were "released" from the furnace.

Those were not crude, mass-produced weapons, but genuine [masterpieces].

The longsword, forged from mithril, is light yet incredibly sharp, and is almost unaffected by inertia when swung.
The impact of the adamantite hammer caused a localized shockwave, enough to crush the defenses of an incompetent ruler like Mr. Night.

The spears inlaid with divine runes carried the authority to hit their target, their trajectories impossible to deflect by conventional means; there were even a few artifact-level weapons exuding an ancient aura, which were briefly projected by the domain, solely for this suppression.

The two fields are clashing head-on.

The difference between Vulcan's overwhelming arsenal and the weapons of the Divine Forge was immediately apparent when they came into contact with the weapons of the Divine Forge.

Many weapons made of ordinary iron and modified materials cracked in their first direct confrontation and were easily cut by the mithril blade;
The warhammer, imbued with fire properties, struck the adamantite shield, leaving only a shallow mark.

Those offensives that relied on quantity and combination were dismantled one by one under the suppression of the laws of the crown-level domain.

If Vulcan's Weapon Domain effect lasts for 2.5 Nights, then the Dwarven God of War's Weapon Domain would at least last for 12 Nights.

This is a huge gap, and Dumasongyin is not in a hurry to expand his territory to tear apart the [Ten Thousand Forged Wasteland].

He deliberately slowed his pace, his malicious gaze fixed on Vulcan with a hint of cruel patience.

He knew that his opponent was an undead, and that a simple kill would be meaningless. So he decided to try a different approach and make good use of the characteristics of the Vulcan undead to please his father.

The Father and Mother Goddesses were distressed by the fall of another divine son; his brother Clangedin had been killed by the damned son of Abraham, and he, as the son, needed to do something to comfort the Father and Mother Goddesses.

He came in person today because he intended to capture Vulcan, this immortal insect, and turn him into a dwarf lantern—using Vulcan's undead abilities to make him a blood lamp that would continuously bleed him out.

"rest assured……"

Dumasongyin said in a low voice, then smiled at Vulcan:

“I won’t kill you right away. Your blood is very durable and perfect for lighting lamps. Once I’ve slowly crushed that wildness that’s somehow gotten into you, you’ll understand what true order is.”

As he finished speaking, the weapons of the Divine Forging Furnace began to consciously target the weapons in the [Ten Thousand Forged Wasteland].

Instead of attacking Vulcan himself, they destroyed everything in his domain one by one.

He could have easily torn the domain apart, but he didn't, because he wanted to gradually wear down the "wildness" in Vulcan.

The mithril sword precisely severed ordinary iron longswords, the adamantite warhammer smashed the mountain of weapon fragments, and wherever the artifact projection swept by, the entire arsenal of weapons was wiped out, turning into ashes.

The wasteland is shrinking, the sky is pressing down, and Vulcan's territory is being dismantled bit by bit.

Vulcan understood in that instant.

This is not a fight, this is humiliation.

Dumasongyin didn't rush to kill him, not out of caution, but because he was certain—in this divine realm belonging to the dwarven pantheon, a ruler who hadn't yet touched the crown had no chance of turning the tide. He was dismantling Vulcan's dignity, turning every act of resistance into a futile display.

So Vulcan stopped retreating.

He leaned forward, just as his adoptive father had once led him forward through the collapsed mine tunnels.

If there's no turning back, then go for it!

boom--

He stomped his foot hard, the ground cracked, and his whole body transformed into a heavy yet swift straight line. With a single sprint, he traversed the remaining distance in the domain and appeared before the dwarven war god.

The warhammer was swung.

That strike was devoid of any frills, pure to the point of being almost ruthless, as if it were the execution of a duty. As the hammer fell, Vulcan behind him swung his giant hammer in sync, the two weights combined, like two mountains falling simultaneously.

"Boom."

A dull, heart-stopping thud rang out, but there was no tearing as Vulcan had anticipated.

Duma Songyin simply raised his hand, and the [Divine Weapon - Titan Pickaxe] swept out from his palm, the blade carrying a heavy and ancient forging divinity, precisely meeting the heavy blow.

boom! ! ! ! ! ! !
The moment the two weapons collided, the shockwave spread outwards, creating a dent in the wasteland, while Vulcan's offensive was completely shattered by this attack.

On the other side, Duma Songyin's territory responded accordingly.

The divine forging furnace roared, and one after another, enormous warhammers forged from adamantite and mithril took shape in the void, carrying the cold will that slaughter was to come as soon as they were forged, and crashed down on [Vulcan].

boom--!
Vulcan was knocked away head-on.

The warhammer in his hand cracked upon the first recoil, then completely disintegrated in mid-air, turning into countless scattered metal fragments; his arms cracked with a teeth-grinding sound from the impact, his bones were pulverized, and his muscles and tendons were torn apart along with them.

Vulcan was struck by several divine hammers in succession, and his enormous avatar was slammed back into Vulcan's body in mid-air. The backlash from the disintegration of the avatar was fed back to the Overlord himself without reservation.

Vulcan crashed into the depths of the wasteland, breaking several rock ridges and carving a long trench in the ground.

Fighting against opponents of higher levels is a gap that can never be bridged by mere passion.

Especially in the divine realm of the dwarven pantheon.

Unless a miracle occurs, the ending has already been written today.

In the distance, Dumason walked slowly, his steps unhurried, as if he were merely inspecting an unfinished workshop. He stood at the edge of the Vulcan crash site, looking down at the figure still struggling to rise from the deep crater, and couldn't help but let out a joyful laugh.

"Haha, you're really tenacious."

His tone was laced with undisguised sarcasm.

"To be beaten like that and still be able to get up. And to recover so quickly, the bones are broken, but the flesh grows back... tsk, it really does look like a cockroach." He narrowed his eyes slightly.

"To be honest, with your physique, you could probably burn for a very long time if used as a blood lamp."

As he finished speaking, he raised his gaze, his divine-level vision sweeping across the entire [Ten Thousand Forged Wasteland].

The ravaged territory is crumbling, and weapons are running low.

Duma Songyin seemed to have suddenly discovered something, and gave a soft "Oh," followed by a playful smile: "I see... there's a weapon hidden in your domain."

He raised his hand and pointed into the depths of the wasteland.

"bring it on."

"I'll give you a chance."

“Take that weapon and attack me again.”

The tone was as if allowing an apprentice to make one last meaningless attempt.

Meanwhile, Vulcan was stunned.

He struggled to stand up, supporting himself with his broken yet rapidly regenerating arm, and for the first time, a noticeable tremor appeared in his brow.

"...I have another weapon?"

As the master of this domain, he knew his [Ten Thousand Forged Wasteland] all too well. The last true weapon was the warhammer he had personally forged and was most satisfied with—but that warhammer had been completely destroyed in the impact just now.

He shouldn't have any more weapons.

However, just as he subconsciously tried to perceive the area again, his consciousness faltered slightly.

At the edge of the wasteland, under the gray sky, there was indeed something else, but it was not any weapon he had forged.

That was a sword burning with golden flames...?!
Vulcan stared blankly at the sword burning with golden flames.

My heart skipped a beat at that moment.

He had never seen a weapon like this before—not because of its sharpness or its power, but because of its near-perfect beauty.

It wasn't ornate in a decorative sense, but rather a harmony that made the blacksmith's instincts tremble.

The curvature of the sword spine, the convergence of the blade line, and the rhythm of the flame flowing along the blade all seem to have been verified through countless forgings and failures, leaving only this one possibility in the end.

It exists there, just like the answer itself.

Just then, a voice that only he could hear slowly echoed in his mind.

"Do you know why everyone else presses their hands on the table whenever a dwarf is at a banquet?"

Vulcan was taken aback, and subconsciously replied, "...What?"

The voice, however, didn't wait for his reply and continued speaking on its own.

"Long ago, there was a feast where all the tribes gathered together. The wine was excellent, and the music was wonderful. But then a dwarf got drunk and started pointing at other people's houses, saying, 'Your pillars are so fragile; I could kick them down with one kick.'"

Nobody paid him any attention.

"He wasn't satisfied, so he slammed his fist on the table and continued muttering, 'Your building isn't that tall; if I jump hard, I can touch the roof.'"

"Still no one is paying attention to him."

"Then the dwarf, enraged and embarrassed, roared, 'You don't believe me? Let me show you!'"

"Then he really jumped with all his might."

"He knocked over the banquet table."

"From then on, whenever there was a banquet with dwarves, everyone would hold the table down, because they were afraid that another drunk dwarf would touch the roof."

Vulcan: "..."

He remained silent for a long time, standing obediently in place, clearly not understanding what was so funny about the joke.

The voice didn't seem to mind at all; on the contrary, it seemed to have found a suitable audience, and its tone became even more cheerful.

"There is still one."

"Did you know that, theoretically speaking, every weapon that has been used for a long time and given meaning will slowly develop its own consciousness? There have been successful examples of this with human swords, elven bows, and even orc battle axes."

"But the Book of Hatred of the Dwarves is missing."

"We studied it for a long time before we finally found the reason."

“It’s not that artifact spirits have never been created.”

"Instead—every Book of Hatred that has given birth to a spirit will start telling dwarf jokes to those around it."

Vulcan: "..."

The silence was almost awkward.

Vulcan wasn't being disrespectful; he simply didn't know how to respond. In his world, forging and combat were very direct, and this kind of roundabout humor was a bit too complex for him.

The voice seemed to realize this as well, and coughed lightly, its tone finally becoming more subdued, but still carrying the familiar teasing.

"Consider the last one a bonus."

“Look at that guy named Duma Songyin.”

"Isn't it like those villains in stories—standing on the side of victory, insisting on finishing their lines?"

"Even when you have a clear advantage, you insist on explaining your plans, showing mercy, and giving your opponent a 'last chance'."

"And then the next page is often when he pays the price."

The voice paused slightly, then suddenly became resolute.

"Now, it's your turn."

"Summon that sword."

"Then, hack at him hard."

Their communication occurred only at the very surface of their consciousness, like a fleeting spark, and in reality, not even a single breath had truly passed.

Just as Xia Xiu uttered the words "Chop it down hard," Vulcan's right hand suddenly sank.

A sword appeared out of thin air in his palm.

The sword is long and slender, yet unassuming. Its edges are dull, and its surface is even covered with a layer of mottled dark brown rust, like scrap iron that has been abandoned deep in a mine for many years.

This was the result of Xia Xiu's deliberate actions.

The moment [Sword of Abelio] appeared, he had already covered the outer layer of the sword with a rewritten [Presence-weakening Element].

This variant does not completely erase existence, but rather precisely distorts cognition.

To any bystander, this sword would only be interpreted as a defective product—of inferior material, outdated structure, and utterly worthless. More importantly, it suppressed the aura of [miracle] that would have caught the attention of even the gods to an almost imperceptible degree.

How to describe it?
Yes, it's like stuffing a blazing sun into a rusty tin box; opening the box reveals a surprise.

Lao Xia was as cunning as ever... oh, that's called cunning.

In the distance, Dumasongyin indeed took the bait.

The dwarven war god stared at the rusty sword in Vulcan's hand, paused for a moment, and then burst into unrestrained laughter that echoed in his domain, carrying a grating, metallic sound.

"what!"

"I thought you would leave behind something precious."

He raised the Titan pickaxe in his hand, pointed it at Vulcan, and spoke with a sarcastic and contemptuous tone.

"And this is what you show me?"

"Junk found in a pile of fakes?"

"It seems you not only like to imitate, but also like to pick up other people's trash."

Vulcan did not respond; he simply looked down at the sword in his hand.

Unlike other perfect embryos who have wielded the [Sword of Abelio], Vulcan did not invoke the great spirit of his old father, but instead listened to the sword as a blacksmith, a warrior, and an undead who had experienced countless deaths.

The information then naturally emerged.

It's not language, but an understanding that's directly imprinted on one's consciousness.

【Psionic Flame - True Death】

【Blade of Justice, Realistic Cutting-Off】

Of the six operating mechanisms, he instantly grasped two of them—clear, stable, and without any resistance, as if these abilities were prepared specifically for him.

Vulcan slowly adjusted his posture.

He gripped his sword with both hands, the hilt close to his chest, arms drawn in, back straight, feet staggered, center of gravity low. It wasn't a savage charging stance, but an almost ritualistic posture, like a knight's final preparation before charging—steady, restrained, yet containing a resolute determination that would never turn back once unleashed.

At this moment, a faint, almost imperceptible golden flame flickered on the rusty blade.

Vulcan looked up.

Then, step forward.

The ground cracked beneath his feet, and his figure once again became a trail of forward movement, leaving all hesitation and doubt behind.

On the opposite side, Duma Songyin also raised the [Titan Pickaxe].

This time, the dwarven war god no longer played games.

He had decided to shatter every bone in this stubborn, unyielding, and ever-recovering immortal's body, until he was reduced to mere gasping for breath, and to make him understand the true meaning of difference.

The divine weapon was raised high, and the domain roared.

Duma Songyin's judgment never wavered until the actual collision occurred.

After all, he never imagined that a certain old father would like to let his sons play with his big sword.

In Duma Songyin's mind, the sword in Vulcan's hand was nothing more than a piece of scrap metal gnawed by time.

No matter how steady and solemn Vulcan's stance was when he held his sword, in his eyes it was nothing more than the last futile struggle of a trapped beast.

Until that instant, just as the Titan pickaxe and the sword were about to collide, a corner of the rust on the sword was suddenly lifted by some force.

The surprise inside is here!!!

A golden luster, like a flame suppressed for countless eons, seeped from the spine of the sword.

It was not ordinary light, nor was it the kind of glorious light that was sacred or fiery; rather, it was a color that carried an aura of absolute sovereignty, thus proclaiming that this thing was born to burn everything.

Dumasongyin's pupils suddenly contracted.

Deeper into his spiritual vision, he saw a black sun slowly rising.

That sun had no light, yet it swallowed up all the meaning of light; it had no heat, yet it caused the very concept of burning to begin to crumble.

"...Golden Tyrant".

"Hugh Abraham!!!!!"

"He has achieved great spirituality!!!"

These words were practically dragged out from the depths of his soul.

The Dominator is separated from the Crown by only one insurmountable barrier; but the Crown is separated from the Miracle by a barrier of seven etheric levels.

Fear truly descended at this moment.

But it was all too late.

Sword and divine weapon, clashing head-on.

Instead of a deafening roar, there was a low, clear sound—a cutting sound.

The moment the [Titan Pickaxe] made contact with the blade, a tiny yet undeniable crack appeared. The crack didn't spread; instead, it seemed locked in place by some kind of judgment, forcibly extending along the weakest, yet most fatal, line of logic.

The next instant, Vulcan pressed down.

The sword fell.

That wasn't a chop, but a cut; Dumason's right arm was neatly severed, starting from the shoulder.

It was not just a physical rupture, but a deeper stripping away—his right hand, along with the divine fragments and combat powers it carried, and even the concept of "right hand" itself, which symbolizes wielding a hammer, making judgments, and executing orders, were all cut off.

Golden psionic flames immediately climbed up the broken surface.

The flames did not spread, but remained unusually focused, as if they were conscious, biting tightly into the wound and emitting a fine, chilling "pfft, pfft" sound.

Before the divine blood could even drip, it was directly evaporated and erased in the flames.

Duma Songyin staggered back a step, then fell heavily to his knees.

The realm is in turmoil, and divinity is in disarray.

"Ahhh...my right hand..."

For the first time, his voice lost its imposing authority, replaced by an undisguised panic. He instinctively channeled his divine power, attempting to reshape his limbs—a fundamental instinct of the gods.

But at the very moment the divine power was gathered, golden flames suddenly ignited again at the broken edge that should have been empty.

There was no source, no warning.

The flames directly scorched the edge of his divine core, burning away the power he had just gathered, and even eroding his body in the opposite direction, causing him to let out an uncontrollable roar of pain.

He tried a second time.

the third time.

Every attempt ended with the same result—the flames appeared, burned, and were rejected.

At this moment, Duma Songyin finally realized a fact that almost broke him down.

He lost the concept of the "right hand".

At this moment, Vulcan, whose EVE particles had been largely depleted by this conceptual strike, was raising his golden sword with a deathly pale face.

He planned to take advantage of the opportunity while he still had a chance to strike again, and use the [Sword of Abelio] to cut off the head of the dwarf war god as well.

(End of this chapter)