Kunpeng was not dead yet.
But he was not far from death.
The lingering force of the Heavenly Thunder rampaged through his body, shattering most of his meridians and making his Spiritual Power flow intermittently.
His left arm had been severed at the shoulder, his right leg twisted at an impossible angle, and every rib in his chest was broken. Jagged bone fragments had pierced his lungs, and every breath brought up bloody foam.
He lay at the bottom of the crater, his charred body giving off wisps of green smoke.
But he was not dead yet.
A Quasi-Saint's vitality was simply too powerful.
Even after being struck into this state by the Heavenly Thunder, even with his Nascent Soul shaken nearly to the point of dispersal, he remained alive.
His heart was still beating. His right eye was still watching. That sole remaining eye stared fixedly at the sky, its pupil reflecting the blue heavens after the clouds had dispersed.
He was waiting.
Waiting for the Human Race to think he was dead, waiting for them to lower their guard, waiting to find one last breath of strength to escape.
As long as he escaped, as long as he found a hidden place to recuperate, he would still have a chance.
After cultivating for countless epochs, he had faced more perilous dead ends than this.
He had survived. Every single time, he had survived.
This time would be no different.
Kunpeng compressed his remaining Spiritual Power within his heart, held his breath, concealed his aura, and lay at the bottom of the crater like a scorched stone.
But the Human Race gave him no opportunity.
Suiren Clan stood atop the high platform, his gaze blazing.
Rather than order a retreat, he raised his right hand and swept it forward.