The more Zhao Cheng thought, the more chaotic he felt the affairs of the world were—and the more he felt that his own situation was far from good.
There seemed to be far too many elements surrounding him. He always had the illusion that he might suddenly drop dead at any moment.
Just as Zhao Cheng was carrying out intense deductions and calculations, far away at the end of the river of time, an incomparably towering, sharply angular mech finally finished condensing. Wielding a pair of long, vicious swords, it cleaved toward Zhao Cheng.
Buzz!
Before Zhao Cheng made a move, Void Kalpa in his hand began to hum and tremble on its own.
The mech condensed from the apocalypse shattered Zhao Cheng's train of thought. At the same time, a streak of sword-light emerged from his heart, severing every stray thought—and tempering the sword's edge with all those thoughts.
Delusional states were something no realm could entirely avoid. So long as one thought, there would be moments of delusion. The stronger one became, the higher the threshold was, that was all.
Not to mention Zhao Cheng—even Yuanshi, unless he had cultivated himself into a stone, would still have ripples stir within him whenever he encountered something.
Yet in that instant, Zhao Cheng's thoughts steadied, and his distractions were swept away.
No matter what the Dao Venerable was like, what the Sword Ancestor was like, what the Dimensional Demon God was like, or what schemes and intentions the great powers of ancient times truly harbored—as long as the sword in his hand was sharp enough, he could naturally cut through every peril and obstruction.
Rather than competing with others in schemes, he might as well sharpen the sword in his hand, slash apart the chessboards of those thousand-layer pancakes who