Faint phantoms of a Yellow Dragon and a Yellow Tiger roared and surged around their fists and palms. With the force of a storm sweeping away dead leaves, the two attacks bore down on Wen Ya.
Wen Ya gritted his teeth, raised his Spirit Brush, and struggled to defend himself.
Half an hour later, more than a dozen fresh wounds covered him. He looked as though he had been hauled from a Blood Pool.
Blood dripped steadily from the edges of his robe, staining the surrounding silver seawater dark red.
The glow of the Spirit Brush in his hand had grown dim. He could barely form even the simplest characters with it.
The two Origin Hall Disciples struck with fist and palm once more. Wen Ya could no longer defend himself. The blows hit him head-on and sent him flying like a puppet with its strings cut.
A mouthful of crimson blood sprayed uncontrollably into the silver seawater.
The Spirit Brush that had accompanied him for so many years flew from his hand under that blow. One of the Origin Hall Disciples planted a foot on it.
"This Spirit Weapon is rather nice. I'll gladly take it."
Without the slightest hesitation, the Origin Hall Disciple put Wen Ya's Spirit Brush into his own Storage Space.
Wen Ya's aura fluctuated violently. His usually gentle, composed face was now pale as paper, and his bloodshot eyes were filled with grim resolve and unwillingness to yield.
He knew he would likely die here today.
Two Peak Grandmaster Origin Hall Personal Disciples had joined forces to kill him. In his badly wounded state, he had no chance of escape.
"Hah!"
A massive earth-yellow fist print tore through layer upon layer of silver seawater and came crashing down toward Wen Ya's head like a meteor