Xiao Mo raised his eyes and gazed at the fragments of the Great Dao drifting down across the sky like flying snow.
They floated slowly down from high above, eventually converging over the faint, illusory altar.
As the formation continued to operate, it not only drained the life force of the ten abbots of the Buddhist temples, all of whom were at the Ascension Realm, but also used them as spirit stones to sustain the formation. Their Root Bones had also suffered varying degrees of damage.
Their cultivation, which had originally been at the Ascension Realm, had now fallen to the Immortal Realm.
And with their Root Bones and meridians damaged, they would likely never be able to take another step into the Ascension Realm in this lifetime.
All of this had been part of Xiao Mo's calculations.
In Xiao Mo's view, as long as his plan succeeded, no one would ever again be strong enough to threaten Wang Xin.
About half an incense stick later, under the formation's influence, the snow-white fragments of the Great Dao gradually coalesced once more, finally becoming a flawless sheet of pure white paper.
Its surface was smooth as a mirror. It felt as if there were nothing there at all, without the slightest trace of roughness.
The paper was utterly and purely white, as if everything in the world that was "white" began with it and ended with it.
Under the gaze of tens of thousands, Xiao Mo stepped forward, one step at a time, through the air.
At last, he stopped before the sheet of white paper.
He gripped the saber hilt tightly in his right hand and slowly ran his left hand along the blade. His palm passed over the edge, and blood immediately stained the blade red.
Using the saber