Chapter 699: White Death vs Old Man Burning Cloud

“Whatever the case, Old Man Burning Cloud is without a doubt countless times stronger than Roger. I refuse to believe someone like him could lose to White Death,” someone else said confidently, arms crossed as they stared at the screen.

Another voice chimed in, more cautious but filled with speculation. “White Death uses black flames… same as those from the declining Black Lotus Guild. But this one’s different. Look at him—he doesn’t carry the aura of a Black Lotus member. They rarely show themselves, let alone cause a spectacle. And Old Man Burning Cloud has walked the path of flames for thousands of years… there’s no way this masked upstart can out-burn him.”

“I don’t know…” a quieter voice muttered. “White Death is… strange. After what he did to Roger, nothing about him seems ordinary. His mask—plain, blank, no features—it’s like he doesn’t want to be known. Or maybe… he wants the world to fear what they can’t know.”

As the crowd argued and guessed, breaths held and theories flung, the battlefield flared to life. The flames around them shifted as the two figures—one ancient and blazing, the other young and silent—finally moved.

And just like that, the battle between Old Man Burning Cloud and White Death began.

“Kid, it’s your doom to find me as your opponent!” Old Man Burning Cloud roared with maniacal laughter, baring his yellowed teeth like a beast unchained. His eyes glowed with savage delight, and his aura flared like a raging volcano.

Without hesitation, he drew an old, scorched sword from his back. The moment it left its sheath, flames coiled around the blade, dancing wildly, eager to burn the world itself. With a sudden motion, he slashed at Max.

WHOOSH!

A red arc of blinding flame burst forth, cutting through the air with terrifying force. It wasn’t just fire—it was pressure, heat, and destruction condensed into a single strike.

But Max, calm as ever, used his Three Dimensional Body the moment the sword moved. His senses flared, and the world around him slowed. He saw it all—the angle of the slash, the temperature around the blade, even the faint distortions in the air caused by the heat. And then, with just a single smooth step to the side—

FWOOSH!

The arc of flames narrowly missed him, whistling past like a meteor. It continued its deadly path until it collided with a row of burning buildings behind him.

BOOM!

A massive explosion followed as the arc struck. The buildings were split cleanly in two—horizontally—as if sliced by a divine blade. The upper halves hovered for a second, then crumbled into glowing ashes, scattering into the smoky air like dying embers.

The crowd watching from the Battle Realm gasped, their awe and fear deepening. Max’s eyes narrowed slightly behind his featureless mask. His mind remained calm, analyzing every detail.

‘Second level Concept of Flames.’ He instantly recognized it. The way the fire moved, the sharpness of the arc, the heat that lingered even after the strike—it was all too refined, too clean.

Old Man Burning Cloud wasn’t just throwing fire around. He had mastered it—tamed it. His flames carried meaning, control, and intent.

“You dodged it?” Old Man Burning Cloud muttered in disbelief, his eyes narrowing. Then, just as quickly, his shock twisted into something darker—curiosity and bloodlust. A grin stretched across his wrinkled face, and he let out a wild laugh that echoed across the burning battlefield.

“Let’s see if you can dodge a few more of my attacks!” he roared like a madman, eyes gleaming with crazed excitement. Without hesitation, he charged forward, his sword blazing with red-hot flame as he unleashed a flurry of slashes in every direction.

His movements were erratic but powerful, and with each swing, arcs of scorching flame burst out, cutting through the air like fiery blades. It was a relentless storm—strike after strike, wave after wave, fire upon fire.

The very air screamed as flame tore through it, and the burning ruins around them trembled from the sheer heat and force of his attacks.

But Max… didn’t even break a sweat. His figure moved like a shadow dancing between lightning. Every time an arc came close, he was already gone. With each dodge, his feet shimmered with fiery brilliance—black flames shaped like leg armor wrapping tightly around his calves.

They weren’t ordinary flames—they were part of his Flame Tyrant Inheritance. Just like gauntlets had formed around his hands before, this time his legs were enveloped by the tyrant’s burning will, forming what looked like flaming leggings.

With every step, he moved faster than the eye could follow, his speed increasing with each dodge, as though the flames themselves were pushing him forward.

No matter how wildly Old Man Burning Cloud swung his sword—no matter how ferocious his strikes became—it didn’t matter. Max weaved through them all effortlessly, his footwork so smooth, so precise, that it looked like he was gliding through the storm of fire.

One flame arc missed his chest by an inch, another carved through where his leg had just been, but none—not a single one—could touch him.

The battlefield, once dominated by Old Man Burning Cloud’s fury, began to feel like a stage for Max’s dance.

The old man’s strikes grew more desperate, more chaotic, but every effort ended the same. Miss. Miss. Miss. Until finally, even the flames themselves seemed to falter, unable to find their mark.

And standing untouched amidst the inferno, Max remained calm, unreadable behind his white mask, while the crowd watching across the Battle Realm sat frozen in awe.

“How is this possible?!” Old Man Burning Cloud finally shouted, his voice hoarse with disbelief. For the first time in centuries, true shock twisted his expression.

He had mastered both the sword and the flames to an extraordinary level—his strikes were not just fiery, they carried the precision and speed of a seasoned swordsman combined with the overwhelming explosive force of a volcanic eruption.

His slashes could tear through steel, his flames could incinerate thunder, and yet… not a single one had landed on the masked boy before him. His pride, forged over centuries of battle, trembled. And then came the words that shattered it.

Your gift is the motivation for my creation. Give me more motivation!