What kind of sword strike was this?
As the sword light glided along, turbulent currents of spacetime seemed to appear, and fragments of time emerged, as though it had stirred up all manner of prehistoric traces of things that had once happened within this space.
Old scenes rose and fell in the flow of time, dancing with the sword light. Everything underwent "reincarnation," shrouded in haze, as though a shattered world had been dragged out, tracing backward into the mottled patches of that ancient past and future.
The thumb-thick Green Bamboo held by the leader of the Western Religion could be called a supreme treasure, capable of bolstering his own Buddha nature and keeping his ancient monk's Dao bones from scattering.
Yet against this sword strike, it was utterly useless. Even with every means exhausted in an all-out resistance, it could not withstand the blow, turning into a rain of light that scattered in all directions.
More terrifying still, when the sword strike touched the Western Religion leader's sixteen-foot golden body, he blurred, twisted, and turned into a mass of rules, becoming the most fundamental light particles between heaven and earth.
The sword light seemed to drag him into a special region, tracing backward through his time, through his history and past, before striking him down forever at his origin, annihilating both his spirit and form.
"What power is this!?"
There were no supremely powerful fluctuations, no terrifying sources of energy and light rising, nor any eruption of blood mist and rune fragments. There was only the simplest of endings.
Yet the more silently it killed, the greater its deterrent power.
For it surpassed common sense, surpassed the world, surpassed everything observable. The real world could not bear it, and so it "veiled the eyes."
Everything happened so quickly that