In everyone's eyes, Su Yi's body was battered and broken, his injuries grave, as though he could collapse at any moment.
Some departed spirits from the Primordial Dao Traditions were even beginning to stir, believing the battle was about to end and that this was the perfect time to strike.
Yet who could have imagined that, in an instant, a single sword thrust would pierce straight through the Painter's chest!
It was simply a Stroke of Divinity—abrupt and tyrannical, utterly overturning everyone's expectations.
Yan Daolin, the Fisherman, and Deng Zuo's expressions changed drastically. They instinctively retreated, their hearts trembling and their scalps tingling.
They were closest to him, yet none of them had noticed what kind of trump card Su Yi had used to make that strike unleash such terrifying power.
"You..."
The Painter's eyes widened, clearly unable to believe it. "Since you possessed such a trump card, why did you insist on waiting until you were injured to use it?"
"Did I scare you?"
Su Yi said apologetically, "My fault. I got carried away having fun."
"Having fun?"
The Painter was so furious that he nearly ground his teeth to pieces. What kind of ridiculous reason was that?
The spectators in the distance all fell silent. Was he really just having fun?
Bang!
The Painter's body cracked apart and crumbled in pieces. The terrifying Sword Qi spread through him, having long since destroyed every trace of his vitality.
"Temple Master, before I die, can you answer me one question?"
The Painter's voice came in broken fragments.
"Go ahead."
Su Yi nodded.
"Have you... truly always looked down on me?"
The Painter's voice grew weaker and weaker, while his eyes dimmed.
Su Yi fell silent.
Yet the Painter seemed to have already understood. He laughed at himself and sighed deeply.