He said those few sentences in a flat, unremarkable tone, as if he were saying the crops in the fields had ripened and could be harvested.
There was not the slightest ripple in Yang Mei's murky eyes.
He glanced at the dark mass below—the armies of the Witch Clan and Devil Race, pinned motionless by an invisible force—and nodded.
"Very well."
"In any case, we and the Witch Clan are already locked in a fight to the death," Yang Mei said, every word bland.
"Since their origin can help you recover, then kill them."
"As for those Devils..." Yang Mei paused, his gaze sweeping over the terrified Devil Race warriors below.
"Luohu won't care whether these ants live or die."
"What he values is the Great Dao, not this cannon fodder."
To an existence like Luohu, the so-called Devil Race army was nothing more than a tool to realize his ambitions.
If a tool broke, another could be made.
If the sacrifice of these tools could be used to exchange for an ally whose strength had returned to its peak, Luohu knew how to calculate that bargain.
"Right now, the most important thing is for you to recover."
"Zhou Ming and the others won't stay in Chaos for too long."
"Once they return, in your current state, our defeat will be beyond doubt."
After Hongjun heard this, a faint approving smile appeared on his face.
"What Fellow Daoist says is absolutely right."
Hongjun hesitated no longer.
He raised his hand, palm facing downward.
Below, Xing Tian abruptly lifted his head.
Blood baleful energy was still surging around him, and the Gan Qi axe was stained with the Devil Race's remaining blood. But the force pressing down on him was too heavy—so heavy he could not even raise his axe.
"Hongjun!"