The roaring Black Tide surged and receded beyond the shield of divine light, already seeming powerless.
The apocalyptic scene beyond Central Mountain was, of course, still brutal and searing. Yet viewed from across the divide at this moment, it instead possessed a magnificent grandeur.
The black snow filling the skies was a spectacle of another kind.
Such were the affairs of the human world: some admired the snow beside a fire, while others shivered in thin clothes.
No one could truly understand another.
Wang Changji, Yue Tiannu, Zhu Weiwu, Kuishan, Dou Zhao, Jiang Wang.
These six had never before joined hands against an enemy. Some had met for the very first time.
Yet there was no need for communication at all.
Their formidable strength allowed them to unleash themselves without restraint, while their exceptional battle instincts made their offensive flow like drifting clouds and running water. As their attacks rose and fell in succession, they collided in dazzling splendor. Wherever blades, swords, and spears passed, fists and kicks flew, and divine intent descended—a complete aesthetic of battle!
Watching such a fight was like admiring a boldly expressive masterpiece overflowing with talent, like listening to a rare melody from the human world whose lingering notes would not fade.
Its elegance could not be exhausted in words, its effortless grace could not be fully told.
Watching silently, Zuo Guangshu felt his heart yearn for it. He only wished he could immediately establish an Outer Tower, join them, and play his part in this magnificent composition.
Ge Fei, whose body had been possessed by a powerful being, could not be called weak. At this level, he had virtually no weaknesses to speak of. Yet this group had forcibly beaten open his defenses, beaten out his vulnerabilities.
Every slash, every sword stroke, every thrust