Within the Lingxiao Treasure Hall, once a place filled with immortal music and gathering auspicious clouds, an oppressive atmosphere now hung heavy. Di Jun sat upon the Nine-Dragon Throne, his face dark as water, his knuckles faintly whitening from the force of his grip. The desk before him, forged from Star Essence Gold, had long since shattered into pieces, clearly unable to withstand the Heavenly Emperor's thunderous rage. The Eight Great Demon Immortals stood in the hall with injuries covering their bodies and weakened auras, heads lowered in solemn silence, not daring even to breathe loudly. Demon Master Kunpeng stood slightly ahead of the others, his face somewhat pale and his robes stained with specks of blood. Though his wounds were minor, he still looked rather disheveled.
"Nearly half lost... nearly half lost!" Di Jun's voice seemed to squeeze through clenched teeth. "My Heavenly Court's ten million elite soldiers were routed by a mere million Witch Barbarians! You all... have truly opened my eyes!"
The hall fell deathly silent, with only heavy breathing audible. The defeat was crushing, and any explanation would have seemed pale and powerless. The Witch Race's individual combat strength was formidable, especially the Twelve Ancestral Witches, who were as terrifying as ancient fiends. They had left a deep psychological scar on every high-ranking member of the Demon Clan who had taken part in the battle.
Kunpeng took a deep breath, stepped forward, and bowed. "Your Majesty, please quell your anger. This defeat was not the fault of our troops, but because the Witch Race's top experts were simply too powerful. The Twelve Ancestral Witches possess indestructible bodies, strange divine abilities, and strength comparable to mid-stage Primordial Origin Golden Immortals. Though our Demon Clan has countless soldiers and generals, our peak combat strength truly... falls short."
Di