Through a small grove, running frantically.
More precisely, they were fleeing for their lives amid the jagged black buildings of the Imperial City.
The fugitives were Withered Bones Demon General and Cold White Skin. Eight-Armed Rakshasa was already gone. The Eight-Armed Rakshasa had taken a hand chop from Xiang Yuan; his three heads and eight arms scattered like dust on the wind, gone forever with no chance of return.
Fortunately, he had not made a sound before leaving, nor had he even blinked. He was a tough man, and that salvaged some of his dignity.
Eight-Armed Rakshasa had been the one struck, while Withered Bones Demon General and Cold White Skin had merely watched from the side. Yet that chop had been terrifyingly profound. Not only did it carry the dreadful effect of certain death upon a certain hit—even bystanders felt as though they were personally experiencing it.
When the blade-light descended, both of them felt a chill in their chests at the same time. Looking down, they saw a gash, deep enough to expose bone, tearing its way across them.
Both great figures of the Demon Kingdom felt as if they had taken a blow. When they lowered their heads, there truly was a wound across their chests, deep enough to expose bone.
When their gazes shifted away, the wound vanished. When they looked down again, the slash mark had eerily shifted with their line of sight, appearing on their shoulders and arms.
That blow had never cut the flesh.
The blade-light struck directly at the Primordial Spirit, using the line of sight to forcibly brand the concept of "being cut" into the bystanders' Primordial Spirits.
What the blow struck was not the flesh, but the Primordial Spirit. The cut to the Primordial Spirit was reflected onto the physical