Li Wenbi was still holding on, but Ding Buxing, curled up behind a shattered stone parapet, had almost exhausted even the strength to play dead.
Half his body had been scorched black by Firepit's fire baleful intent. His palace robes clung to his torn, bleeding flesh, and every tug sent pain piercing his heart. Most of his true essence had gone into keeping the fire baleful intent gang qi at bay.
The bloody froth hanging from his lips dripped onto the heart-guard mirror on his chest, which had cracked into three pieces-this mirror was a lifesaving treasure he had brought out of Great Jin's imperial palace. Now it lay broken in three, its spiritual energy dispersed completely, no different from a piece of scrap metal.
Even though Ding Buxing had not been the principal target of the attacks, a Dharma Nascent Soul bolstered by fortune empowerment had still left a pseudo-Nascent Soul cultivator like him in a miserable state.
Above, the collisions between Qing Chen and Wu Hun grew louder and louder. Each explosion of rules was like a thunderclap bursting beside his ear, shaking him painfully.
Ding Buxing clamped a hand over his mouth, his eyes fixed on the figure in the sky where blood-red mingled with five colors, his pupils filled with horror.
He had known Qing Chen longer than anyone else on Fallen Soul Slope.
One could even say that he knew Qing Chen's background better than anyone in all of Great Jin.
A hundred and fifty years ago, his princely father had sent him, still a mortal then, aboard that Immortal Ferry belonging to the Condensed Jade Sect.
Qing Chen had seemingly incurred some romantic debt back then. He had boarded without looking back, utterly unremarkable among the crowd.
At the time, Ding Buxing had thought