Sun Haobai tightly gripped the Recording Magic Treasure in his hand, his knuckles white with force, while his other hand pressed firmly against a palm-sized miniature formation disk.
Above the formation disk, a lustrous, transparent screen of light hovered and revolved.
At the center of the screen, the figure hovering high in the distant sky was shown in stark relief, so overwhelming that even heaven and earth seemed to lose their color.
Su Fan stood with his hands behind his back, invisible waves of air seemingly churning around him, forcing the dense mist filling the sky to retreat in all directions.
His black robes whipped wildly in the piercing wind pressure, the sharp, ear-splitting sound of his sleeves slicing through the air like the whispers of countless Spirits of the Dead.
Merely looking at the image on the screen made one's heart inexplicably tremble.
His gaze was far sharper than a Quenched blade. This was not the sharpness of anything mundane, but a cold gleam capable of piercing illusion and severing the soul.
His eyes pierced through layer upon layer of mist and the barriers of heaven and earth, locking firmly onto the distant direction of the Devil Race's lair.
The chill and killing intent in that gaze seemed capable of spilling through the screen, freezing one's marrow with cold.
A dense, inky Gray-black Mist coiled around Su Fan's body, a sinister spiritual haze carrying an aura that devoured everything.
Even though it was only an image projected by the Recording Magic Treasure, that tyrannical, suffocating evil pressure still crashed over them like Mount Tai pressing down on their heads, striking straight at their hearts.
Sun Haobai felt a chill surge from the soles of his feet and spread throughout his body. He instinctively hunched his neck, shuddering violently, and