The gale whipped shattered stones into his face, but Chen Wuya did not raise a hand to shield himself. He stared at the ever-widening crack in the vault above, where dark-red light hung down like threads of blood, bathing the entire secret realm as though it had been submerged in warm water. The leader knelt atop the altar's ruins, his left hand raised high. Blood dripped from his fingertips, tracing bizarre arcs through the air that echoed the fissure overhead.
That voice was still sounding—low and ancient, every word seeming to squeeze up from the depths of the earth, numbing their eardrums with its reverberations.
Chen Wuya's palm trembled as Misaligned Force began to circulate on its own. It no longer followed the usual path of true qi; instead, it wound around itself like tangled vines, dismantling and restructuring itself at will. The system hummed deep within his consciousness—not a warning, nor a prompt, but a vibration that bordered on excitement. He knew this was no longer a martial contest. Someone was borrowing the power of heaven and earth to erase them completely.
He did not move, merely lowered both palms slowly until they pressed against the ground.
Bai Zhi gritted her teeth and forced herself up, using the tip of her sword against the ground as she tried to approach, only to be driven back by an invisible pressure. Mo Feng lay prone on the ground, one hand still pressed to the earth. The moisture he had only just drawn out an inch was evaporated into white mist by the warped force in the air.
"Don't come over." Chen Wuya suddenly spoke. His voice was not loud, yet it pierced through the wind and thunder. "He's drawing upon the formation."
The leader's mouth split into a grin, blood running