The weathered dust gathered once more into whole grains, and the dispersed Saintly Breath emerged again from the Void. Everything returned to a few breaths ago, like a painting being played backward.
He took the third step.
Wherever he passed, time stopped.
All motion, change, birth, and death froze in that instant. Even light halted in midair, like insects trapped in amber.
He walked directly beneath that silver-gray giant palm.
He raised his right hand.
Palm facing upward.
He gave it a gentle lift.
That lifting motion was as light as catching a falling snowflake.
Yet that silver-gray giant palm was held up.
The giant palm, ten zhang wide, rested above a right hand less than a foot long, utterly motionless and unable to descend even a fraction.
At the center of the giant palm, a ring of pure white light slowly spread outward.
Wherever that light passed, the silver-gray power of space was peeled away layer by layer, dissolved, and broken down, like ice melting beneath sunlight.
That giant palm was shrinking.
Smaller and smaller.
Thinner and thinner.
From ten zhang wide to five, from five to one, from one zhang to three chi.
In the end, that giant palm shrank into Phantom Spirit's own right hand.
Zhao Guangyin's final lift forcibly dragged him out from the depths of shattered space. The silver-gray outline of light around him flickered violently, becoming so transparent that it nearly vanished entirely, leaving only a cicada-wing-thin halo barely sustaining his human shape.
Phantom Spirit knelt on the Arena.
At the very center of his right palm, a cluster of pure white light was still slowly eroding his power of space.
That light was like a seed that had already taken root deep within the source of his space, spreading, growing, and dismantling his