With a single sword strike, in Qin Yang's eyes, the entire world seemed to have had its pause button pressed.
In the entire world, only Qin Yang himself could still move.
Qin Yang turned back for a glance. He saw the River of Time still surging on without rest, utterly unaffected, without even a splash.
He also saw Uncle Meng's arms stretching out from the River of Time, his palms tearing at the time that belonged solely to Qin Yang, drawing it out longer and longer.
Uncle Meng really had not been bragging. He truly was growing stronger and stronger.
No one could travel upstream along the River of Time back into the past, nor could anyone drift downstream into the future.
But time itself could change.
Qin Yang had known this in his previous life. Time was a relative concept.
At this moment, to the entire Ten Directions Realm, only an instant had passed. But to Qin Yang, that instant might contain a dozen breaths, or perhaps several hours, several days...
It all depended on Uncle Meng's control.
This was why Qin Yang had said that even when facing the River of Time, Uncle Meng was like an ant riding a dead leaf upon the sea.
Yet to every other living being, he could basically be said to have cast off the innate shackles of life itself. He had already transcended gods.
The strength of one's power, the path one cultivated—none of it held much meaning for Uncle Meng anymore.
He was an existence comparable to a dimensionality-reduction strike. To make an analogy, every living being in this world other than Uncle Meng could be likened to ordinary people fighting barehanded. No matter how strong they became, at most they would turn into Elite Soldiers with muscles knotted all