Blood Sea, inside that palace.
Daoist Wen Jing's ghostly figure drifted forward, circling halfway around the Asura girl before her vermilion lips parted slightly, blowing a wisp of breath beside the girl's ear.
Though the girl endured it with all her might, a faint blush still swept across her cheeks, and her silver-white hair fluttered softly.
Wen Jing smiled. "What a fine seedling. Sending her to Spirit Mountain is truly a waste. Those old Daoists there—hardly any of them know how to appreciate such charm."
"Wen Jing, the Ancestor's sword is a vital token of our race."
From the corner, that hoarse voice continued, "We have already submitted to Spirit Mountain. Handing the Primordial Slaughter Sword to His Highness will not cause Spirit Mountain the slightest loss."
"I will relay your words back exactly as they are," Daoist Wen Jing said with a light laugh, her fingertip brushing past the silver-haired girl's cheek. "But whether they will be of any use is not for this Queen to decide."
Ding-ling-ling—
From another corner, a burly figure seemed ready to burst from the darkness, his rough voice suppressing thick fury.
"Mosquito Queen, what do you mean by that?"
"The obvious meaning," Daoist Wen Jing said, lightly flicking her fingertips. With a smile at the corner of her lips, the corner of her phoenix eyes glanced toward that figure. "Not convinced?"
The burly figure fell silent.
"Trash," Daoist Wen Jing snorted. Then she suddenly turned, and as her blood-red gauze skirt fluttered, the entire hall lit up.
In every corner, Asura figures sat, stood, or lay about. From old to young, weak to strong, most wore angry expressions.
"The Blood Sea Asuras are no longer what they once were, yet you still clutch a single sword all day, dreaming of the glorious dreams