Death

In the torrential rain, a white-robed scholar stood there, utterly out of place amid everything around him.

It was Zhuge Yuan—Zhuge Yuan, who had once died—whom Li Huowang had cultivated back into being through the Spine Sword.

Zhuge Yuan swept his gaze around and immediately understood what had happened. Gripping his long-handled Writing Brush, he lightly dotted the red, then clenched his fingers and slashed fiercely at the Chicken-Foot People before him.

The brush in Zhuge Yuan's hand was like the pen of a judge in the underworld. Wherever it touched, Chicken-Foot People fell without another sound. The incense in those Incense Burners was snuffed out at once, never to be lit again.

Zhuge Yuan turned around and looked at Li Huowang. "Brother Li, it has been a long time. Have you been well?"

Li Huowang's head felt as though it were splitting apart. Hearing those words, the corners of his mouth had just begun to rise on his pained face when he suddenly remembered something. His expression twisted again, and he doubled over.

He had to make this clear. Though this person looked very much like Zhuge Yuan, he was not Zhuge Yuan. He was merely something Li Huowang had forcibly cultivated into reality.

Now that his cultivation had reached great completion, he could use the Spine Sword to cultivate Zhuge Yuan back into being. But cultivated was cultivated—ultimately, it was fake. Zhuge Yuan was already dead. He had to face reality.

He had cultivated him into being only as a tool! Just like Peng Longteng! He could not transfer the feelings he had placed upon Zhuge Yuan onto this counterfeit.

He tried to distinguish truth from falsehood. Yet just as Li Huowang thought this, Zhuge Yuan's body began to collapse rapidly, about to retreat back into the Spine