Beside him, Hu Liena also clutched her forehead as she struggled to rise.
Her movements were even more fragile than Xie Yue's. Her once-seductive face was now pale as paper, devoid of the slightest trace of color.
A streak of blood wound down from her forehead along her brow bone, passing the corner of her eye like a bloody tear.
Her golden hair hung messily over her shoulders, its ends stained with dust and blood.
She tried to straighten herself, but staggered, barely managing to brace herself against a half-broken stone pillar beside her.
A trace of uncleaned blood still lingered at the corner of her mouth, glaringly conspicuous against her pale skin.
As for Yan, he had forced himself up by pressing his head against the ground.
This Soul Master, always known for his defense and strength, was in the most miserable state of all.
More than half his armor had shattered, and the exposed skin beneath was covered in charred black marks, as though he had been struck by lightning.
Yan first braced his head against the ground, then trembled as he pushed up his upper body with both arms. His knees slowly bent, and only after a sudden burst of strength did he finally stagger to his feet.
His eyes were so swollen that he could barely open them, leaving only narrow slits. Yet what shone through those slits was the same beastlike unwillingness.
"Not... over... yet..."
Xie Yue's voice sounded like two rusted pieces of iron scraping together—hoarse and dry, every word forced out from the depths of his throat.
He spoke slowly and with great difficulty, yet the obsession in his tone was unmistakable.
He was one of Spirit Hall's Golden Generation.
He was a genius personally cultivated by the Pope.
How could he lose