Chen Wuya's palm still hung in midair, the golden threads at his fingertips trembling faintly like the last flicker of a guttering candle in the wind. He neither took another step forward nor withdrew his force. He merely watched in silence as the gray-robed man he had sent flying struggled up from the rubble, his chest heaving violently, dark red blood seeping from the corner of his mouth.
Leaning on a bronze staff, the elder's knuckles turned white with strain. His voice was cold as ice. "You injured one of my clansmen, and you still think you can walk away unscathed?"
"I don't want to retreat." Chen Wuya slowly lowered his hand. The golden threads from his seven orifices had not dispersed; instead, they slithered beneath his skin, forming dense cracks around his neck. His breath was unsteady as he spoke, but he enunciated every word. "I'm only asking one thing—if I fall now, who will face 'it' when it opens its eyes next time?"
The instant those words fell, the entire scene sank into dead silence.
Though the dome had closed, everyone still remembered the shadow of that inverted city. It was a sight that did not belong to the mortal world—the gaze of some ancient will. And the only person who had dared clash head-on with it was the young man before them, covered in cracks and unable even to stand steadily.
Mo Feng quietly shifted his footing, placing himself diagonally in front of Chen Wuya. He folded his fan, his tone composed. "The ancestral precepts cannot be defied, but if the secret realm collapses, bloodline inheritance will be nothing more than a heap of dry bones. You saw it as well. The system is not something he can control; this was caused by the clash between the