In an instant, explosions erupted in a roar. All kinds of radiance tore through the air, and treasures of every shape and form slashed across the sky, smashing down hard toward the inky-black Yin clouds.
On the Sea Race's side, even the weakest of the treasure-seeking cultivators were Nascent Soul-level existences. Needless to say, in individual strength, they far surpassed the Yinhun ghostly things before them.
Amid the explosions, hundreds and thousands of Fierce Ghosts were reduced to ash in the blink of an eye, dissolving into nothingness. On the surface, the Sea Race held an overwhelming advantage.
Yet the situation was not so simple. The reason was that there were too many enemies. One could even say they were beyond counting. As far as the eye could see, they were packed densely together, and the Sea Race's attacks were like tossing a handful of stones into a lake: for a short while they could stir up no small splash, but very soon, they were swallowed up.
Their predicament at this moment could be called awkward to the extreme.
Though those Yinhun were numerous, the vast majority were merely the lowest-level Wandering Souls and Wild Ghosts, nothing more. They possessed no intelligence at all, and their strength was only equivalent to Spirit Movement Stage cultivators.
Calling fellows of this level cannon fodder would not be excessive.
But cannon fodder did not necessarily mean being sent to die for nothing. At this moment, they had already been surrounded on all sides. If, from the very beginning, they had chosen to retreat, there would have been no suspense at all; these high-level cultivators would certainly have been able to escape safely without losing a single person.
But since they had chosen to remain here, the result was naturally different.
Layer upon layer