Lan Jingqi's robes were torn in many places. A long gash had ripped through one sleeve cuff, exposing skin beneath that had been scorched by demonic qi.
Several deep claw marks scored his lapels, the fabric curling back with charred-black edges. His hem also bore traces of corrosion from demonic qi, holes of every size resembling withered leaves gnawed through by insects.
His body was covered in bloodstains. Some belonged to his enemies, and some to himself.
Some had already dried into dark brown patches, congealed onto the fabric. Others still slowly ran along the folds of his clothes, dripping one drop at a time onto the gravel by his feet with faint pattering sounds.
He did not appear much better off than those Demonic Cultivators lying on the ground. Yet his waist and back remained ramrod straight; his spine had not bent even a fraction beneath the pain, nor had his shoulders sagged an inch from exhaustion.
His steps remained steady. Step by step, he emerged from the smoke and dust, a folding fan in hand. Its face was half-open, just enough to conceal the lower half of his face and leave only his eyes exposed.
Those eyes looked down upon the groaning Demonic Cultivators on the ground as though they were a swarm of disgusting flies, irritation seeping from the depths of his bones.
Lan Jingqi's gaze moved away from those few people on the ground and slowly swept across the entire street, settling on the Demonic Cultivators still stubbornly putting up a futile struggle.
"Ah—this is... so damn irritating."
The instant the final word fell, the air throughout the entire street seemed to be clutched in an invisible hand.
A mountain-like pressure descended from the sky, heavily bearing down upon everyone's chests. Even breathing became difficult, as