The screams gradually faded through the cavernous underground palace.
Everything fell deathly still in an instant. Only the faint crackling of burning candles remained, exceptionally clear in the silence.
The underground palace lay in utter silence, filled with the pungent, nauseating stench of blood and lingering sinister Demonic Qi.
Apart from Yang Jing, who still stood tall and motionless where he was, six cold corpses lay strewn across the floor.
Blood slowly seeped from their wounds, collecting in pools of dark crimson on the bluestone floor-a chilling sight.
The bodies of five Transforming Strength Demon Cult martial artists lay scattered about, their weapons fallen askew beside them and the wounds over their hearts still gruesome.
The black-robed Peak Qi-Devouring Realm Demon General had fallen not far from the hidden passage entrance, utterly lifeless.
Yang Jing stood in the center of the underground palace, slowly drawing in the true qi around him.
He slowly turned, his calm gaze settling on the burly black-robed man's corpse.
The burly man's corpse lay stiff on the ground. Blood poured steadily from the wound that pierced his chest, flowing in thick streams and staining a broad stretch of the surrounding bluestone floor red.
Even in death, he remained frozen in his final posture, his eyes wide and pupils dilated. Intense terror, resentment, and disbelief still lingered in his gaze.
His face was deathly pale, his expression twisted. He had died without ever understanding whose hand had killed him.
Who exactly was this masked young man whose strength was beyond fathoming?
Taking in the sight, Yang Jing walked slowly toward the burly man's corpse with steady steps. His boots crossed the bloodstained floor without making a sound.
He stopped before the corpse and looked down at the black-robed Demon General, a thoughtful expression flickering across his