Sure enough, within Meng Zhao's spiritual awareness, the bizarre three-headed, six-armed Poison King, washed over by the Vast Righteousness of that medieval Great Scholar, seemed to be suffering the torture of having its skin flayed and tendons pulled in hell. It writhed in unbearable agony and howled without end, its terrifying cries spreading throughout the vast Poisonous Cave Space.
More terrifying still, beneath the veil of spiritual light, its body became pitted and uneven, melting like a lit candle. Layer upon layer, wax-like flesh flowed outward and downward, and the human form and semblance it had maintained before were nearly ruined.
Of its three heads and six arms, two heads had completely melted away and four arms had been severed. Only one emerald toad head and two scarred, battered arms remained.
By all rights, the Poison King had been struck to the brink of death by Yan Libing's trump card. Of its cultivation and combat strength, not even one percent remained.
Yet this bizarre Poison King was not a purely independent entity. It had been born from the evolution of this Poisonous Cave Space, naturally the child of the Lesser Heavenly Dao of this Poison Grotto, bolstered by inexhaustible fortune and boundless energy.
To give a simple example, if the power of the Great Scholar's Handwriting could have fallen entirely upon this bizarre Poison King without losing a single fraction, it would certainly have died, without even the right to be gravely wounded.
But because its power had scattered, tearing open the gloomy, dim, sunless vault of the Poisonous Cave Space, the righteous energy shot out and scattered throughout the Poison Grotto. Across the land in every direction, countless venomous insects had absorbed a considerable share of that power.
Thus, the Great Scholar's power had failed to unite in perfect