For several days after they set out, everyone was dispirited, and Mo Chen was no exception.
In the past, Mo Chen had spent seventy or eighty years at a stretch in Wenyuan Pavilion before noticing any traces of time's passage. Now, however, even half a month could leave the surroundings unchanged while the people were gone.
A single expedition into the secret realm had cost tens of thousands of low-level cultivators their lives.
Absurd. Fucking absurd. Low-level cultivators were nothing but consumables.
They had entered the Half-Limit Secret Realm with dreams of seeking immortality and pursuing the Dao, believing they could seize the chance to defy heaven and change their fate. In the end, they were merely dispensable numbers.
The youngest among them were still in their teens. Untested by the world, they had read a few Daoist classics and thought they understood its ways. Only after being thrown into a cage to compete with people from other sects for spiritual herbs and opportunities did they realize how insignificant they were.
Those older cultivators who had survived two expeditions by sheer luck had witnessed their fellow disciples scheming against one another and become afraid of their own shadows. Even with an opportunity before their eyes, they hesitated and second-guessed themselves, ultimately watching it slip away and remaining trapped in the Qi Refining realm, unable to advance an inch.
A month passed, and beyond the Thousand-Jun Ring, there was still nothing but boundless cloud and mist.
Mo Chen gathered his thoughts and sent a strand of divine sense into the spirit beast ring at his waist.
Once the effects of the Soft Spirit Incense wore off, the Nine-Autumn Mantises had begun feeding on the strange bird's flesh and blood.
Over the past month, most had grown considerably, their hardened wings