Before taking that punch, Qing Tong's Yang God external body suddenly gained an ancient suit of armor.
That punch was far too strange. Since he could neither meet it head-on nor avoid it, Qing Tong had no choice but to take it hard. Over his snow-white Daoist robe, he added another suit of armor to protect his physique.
Clearly, Qing Tong did not believe that his martial cultivator's physique, only half a step into the divine state, could truly withstand that punch intact without relying on an external object.
After the punch, the Treasure Armor on the white-haired old man's body shattered like a mirror, shooting outward like countless meteors.
Moreover, the old martial cultivator's burly body began to fall, but not in a straight line. This world was like a crumpled ball of paper casually clenched by a child. Within it, the direction in which the River of Time flowed had already surpassed worldly understanding. So-called directions were all illusions; east, south, west, north, up, down, left, and right were all twisted and folded. Thus, many places that appeared adjacent were actually separated by a thousand miles, while many places that seemed hundreds or thousands of miles apart were merely a hair's breadth away, only one step apart.
This made the white-haired old man's body resemble a glass bead crashing about inside a bamboo tube, swaying endlessly and darting everywhere.
Under ordinary circumstances, having such a Limitless Pure Martial Artist presiding over this sort of world would be a nightmare for any Qi cultivator fighting within it.
When the burly old man finally stopped, struggling to steady the chaotic upheaval of mountains and rivers within his body, he lowered his head and glanced at the battered armor on himself. He spat out a mouthful of bloody saliva, stripped away