The Winter Lord looked coldly at the severely injured English Souls before him, a contemptuous smile playing on his lips. "Do you still want to resist, Ross? You're not my match. Give up now. With your immense power, I can offer you the chance to bear offspring."
"Spit!" Ross, his aura weak and faltering, spat fiercely. His anger was evident in his words. "Winter Lord, you're known as the weakest among the ten Demon Lords. How dare you be so arrogant? If you didn't have so many lackeys with you, do you think I'd be unable to defeat you?"
Hearing this, a trace of killing intent flashed in the Winter Lord's eyes. He detested being reminded of his inferior strength among the Demon Lords. Ross had reopened a wound that had been festering, and now the Winter Lord was determined to deliver a fatal blow.
"Since you're so obstinate, then die."