Southwest of the Central Sea, in the boundless void, several cultivators transformed into streaks of rainbow light and hurried toward Shanglin Peak, the spirit peak at the center of a vast landmass floating in the silent Star Sea.
Dawn was approaching. A hint of fish-belly white emerged in the gray sky behind the distant mountains, their outlines faintly visible.
Below the spirit peak had stood a cultivation market district and four neighboring cities, home to millions. Wilderness rogue cultivators from all quarters and ordinary common folk alike lived there, making it a flourishing haven.
Although the Spell Dao was not a dao path of production and creation, the spirit peak blessed land's unique natural advantages, coupled with many years free of warfare, had allowed these market districts and cities to flourish. They were even more prosperous and densely populated than many great cities on the Eastern Victory Continent.
Yet now, everything around them seemed silent and desolate. Below lay a stretch of pitch darkness, with only a few scattered lights faintly visible, like lone stars in the night.
One of the cultivators noticed the scene and could not help gazing intently at it, his handsome face filled with bone-deep hatred.
"Those damned puppet masters..."
Just then, a fellow disciple flying beside him reminded him, "Senior Brother Fang, we're here. Those ahead seem to be mountain patrol disciples."
Senior Brother Fang looked up ahead and indeed saw several mountain patrol disciples on the mountain path more than a thousand zhang away, dressed in white and shrouded from head to toe in snowy white.
Their attire was rather peculiar. Though neatly tailored, well-fitting enchanted robes lay underneath, they wore loose white robes over them. Gang essence swirled around their bodies, and invisible protective force fields shielded them on every side.
White cloths