The Storm Duke was clad in a simple robe and turban commonly seen among desert-dwellers. The hems of his robes were somewhat worn, and the leather on his scabbard was covered in a shiny patina, all proof of passing time.

If it wasn’t for the manner in which he had appeared—and the suppressive might covering the entire battlefield—no one would’ve noticed that this unassuming old hunter was the Storm Duke of Fort Continent.

The duke walked step by step toward Qianye. The latter only watched as the werewolf entered within a hundred meters of him, which was the safe distance between divine champions, then thirty meters, which was the assault range for most experts. By the time the Storm Duke came to a stop, the two were almost at an arm’s length.

The duke’s big-jointed fingers moved ever so slightly with each step, the scimitar at his waist humming along to them.

At this distance, either opponent could hurt the other with just an eruption of origin power; there wasn’t even a need to move. One could tell from his name that the Storm Duke specialized in speed and explosive power. At this range, victory and defeat were on a thin line.

Qianye’s lashes didn’t even tremble. “Your men have crossed the border, they have to pay the price.”

“Young man, there was...