Pseudo-Saint

Dolare was trapped in an impasse, unable to deactivate the twister that he had unleashed. If he did so, the grass created by the opponent would target him next. But if he continued with the same, he would be expending too much mana.

As he was only able to use wind magic, he couldn't do anything else. He tried a couple of spells but failed to do anything as his opponent countered them all.

Just as he planned to unleash a terrifying attack to level the place, a regal voice resounded, "That's enough, Dolare. You cannot defeat it."

"Are you accepting your loss?" Yablukwon smirked, snapping its finger as a pungent stench began to vaporise from the grass, causing Dolare to flinch in response, hurriedly covering his nose as he increased the distance between the two, creating a draft to ensure the pungent stench didn't reach him, fearing that it was a poison.

A Warlock was definitely capable of that.