The Burning Heaven Lord's investigation continued.
Scarlet threads of divine sense, like densely packed, red-hot stitches, swept over every cultivator in the drill grounds, stitch by stitch.
No one dared move rashly.
Whenever the threads brushed past a cultivator, their clothing took on a dry, scorched yellow hue. The circulation of spiritual energy within them grew sluggish and stalled, while the Spiritual Root in their dantian felt as though it were being roasted over a low flame, sending out faint pangs of searing pain that pierced the heart.
This was the suppression of the pure Law of Fire.
It had nothing to do with the size of the flames or the strength of any technique. The mere passive leakage of a higher-order rule was enough to crush a lower-level cultivator's spiritual energy at its source and burn the foundations of their spiritual power.
The Burning Heaven Lord continued forward, his red robes billowing slightly in the windless air.
His brows drew tighter and tighter, the scarlet in his eyes deepening as another layer of unrelenting, icy gloom settled over his face.
His confidence in his origin-seeking secret art bordered on obsession.
In that battle, his opponent had carried intense traces of colliding waves of fire. Even after ten days and a hundred miles, the lingering imprints of fire intent could never have vanished completely.
Before his Burning Heaven Origin-Seeking Art, even the slightest residue of fire energy would be magnified without limit, leaving it nowhere to hide.
Yet now, the more than four hundred people in the drill grounds were clean.
A few had recently visited the Eastern Domain and carried faint traces of geothermal heat from the desolate ancient lands, but those traces were crude and mixed, utterly devoid of the fierce, weighty marks left by the clash of