always said, strong opponents reveal who’s truly the mightiest, and he firmly believed he was the mightiest.

Brutols' greatest strength wasn’t merely his blazing pyrokinesis but his incredible endurance. His endurance was unlike anything typical; each time he used his fiery abilities, his body endured significant pain from the heat. While unbearable for most, Brutols had grown accustomed to it. It was akin to a woman’s monthly ordeal—crude perhaps, but Brutols had faced such torment repeatedly and survived, making him practically invincible.

Recognizing his substantial progress, Brutols remained humble. Victory didn’t inflate his ego, and defeat never crushed his spirit. Despite many losses, especially early in harnessing his fiery powers, Brutols had matured immensely. His ability to maintain perspective through countless battles was rare and remarkable.

Brutols now defeated opponents so strong it astounded even him. However, he knew he hadn’t yet faced the ultimate adversary—the lich at the tower's pinnacle. This lich had been on his radar for a long time, but Brutols wasn’t in a hurry. He understood that the lich’s longevity meant he wouldn’t die before Brutols found him.

“Wahaha,” Brutols laughed as he ascended to the next level, utterly amazed by what lay before him—a floating sky city, seemingly perched upon the clouds, contrasting sharply with the previous infernal domain. Yet, this sky city lacked vitality, appearing more desolate than the hellish realm below. Brutols sighed heavily but didn’t immediately proceed, instead pausing to ponder.

Contemplating his surroundings, Brutols wondered about other survivors in this lich-claimed area. The sky city fascinated him, mixing whimsical thoughts of falling to death or being gently caught by clouds, prompting a chuckle as he continued to ascend. Soon he encountered creatures resembling angels, but their wings were pitch black. Brutols recognized them as corrupted angels, no longer true angels, who had once possessed life-restoring powers.

Despite their superior equipment and sustenance compared to genuine angels, these corrupted beings had lost their resurrective abilities, crucial to an angel’s strength. True power lies not in individual might but in effective teamwork. Without their key ability, these angels were mere shadows of their potential—now only better fighters with no unity or coordination.

Smirking contemptuously, Brutols saw through their folly. These creatures, merely tainted angels wielding ice swords, could be handled even with bare fists. An angel’s strength stemmed from their magical resistance and resurrection skills. Although Brutols' attacks weren’t magical, their resistance to them didn't matter—his fists were enough.

The fist, an ancient, straightforward weapon, is o

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