"What a sorry state you're in, Governor Bablushka!"
Balkmon extended the Mage's Hand, casually crushing a small asteroid. With the other hand, he lifted his magic wand, provoking the Mechanical Colossus with the tip's magical blade, laughing brazenly:
"The Galactic Governor of the Night Butterfly, deploying mechanical deification, yet fighting so timidly—don't you feel ashamed?"
"Noisy bastard..."
Bablushka snorted coldly, offering no retort.
The Holy Machine Body was covered in scars, nanomechanics racing through scripture recitals to repair them. These details betrayed a harsh truth: in the recent spell clash, Bablushka had been absolutely outmatched.
And Balkmon? Balkmon's body twisted grotesquely, the light reflecting from him forming complex, fluid clusters. To a mortal's gaze, even a brief stare would induce dizziness. Direct proximity would see one torn apart by the twisted curse.
Bablushka glanced at the space around him—the sunlight itself appeared somewhat distorted.
