On the left stood an old monk clad in a bright yellow kasaya, his face gaunt and withered.
The Buddhist power he had once possessed was gone, leaving only the deathly stillness of one at death's door.
His eyes were tightly shut, as though he had long since fallen into an eternal slumber.
If not for the faint rise and fall of his chest, anyone would have taken him for a dried corpse devoid of life.
He had once been Heavenly Sound Temple's hope—the gentle, compassionate young monk.
Faxiang.
To his right stood a several-zhang-tall statue of the Holy Mother, carved from white jade.
The statue was lifelike, its expression compassionate.
A soft, sacred radiance emanated from her body, shrouding the entire great hall.
Above the statue's head floated a faint wisp of purple remnant soul.
Though that remnant soul appeared incomparably weak, as if it might dissipate at any moment, the lazy, seductive aura it exuded was still so familiar.
She had once been the Holy Mother Sect's saintess—the peerlessly beautiful demoness of the Demon Sect.
Jin Ping'er.
Looking at the two old friends before him, now utterly unrecognizable, Li Xiaoyu's hardened heart trembled violently once more.
An indescribable sorrow and fury surged into his heart.
He had never imagined that the two dear friends who had once fought at his side would end up like this.
He hated it.
He hated those Outer Realm Demons who had turned them into this.
He hated himself as well.
He hated his own incompetence, hated himself for not returning sooner.
"Amitabha."
Just then, the gaunt old monk who had kept his eyes shut slowly opened them.
What kind of eyes were those?
They no longer held gentleness or compassion. All that remained was the murkiness and weariness of one who had