Nascent Soul Takes Action

Before Yellow Maple Valley.

Just moments ago, the cultivators of the Six Great Sects had been fired up, their spittle nearly enough to wash the light screen of Yellow Maple Valley's mountain-protecting formation clean.

Whether they were demanding compensation for lost opportunities or demanding blood debts be paid in blood, numbers gave them courage. Their clamoring voices merged into a tangible tide, wave after wave crashing against Zhong Lingdao's ashen face.

Then—

Buzz!

An indescribable pressure descended without warning.

Time, sound, even thought itself, had their throats forcibly seized in that instant.

The Sky Palace Fortress strongman, who had been shouting threats a moment ago, froze stiff as the knuckles of his clenched fists cracked. The flesh on his face congealed, and he even forgot how to express anger.

Death.

A cold, clammy aura of death, carrying the stench of rust, coiled around everyone's necks like a living thing. It crawled up their spines to the backs of their heads, freezing even their souls into trembling.

Nascent Soul Pressure!

If Core Formation Cultivators were strongmen wielding sharp blades, then what now enveloped the entire area was a heavily armored tank stationed a hundred meters away, its black cannon barrel locked squarely on your brow!

It was suppression on an entirely different level—the instinctive paralysis of ants facing a collapsing mountain, where even fleeing became a hopeless dream.

The air was no longer air. It had become a swamp filled with mercury.

Every breath felt like swallowing grit, while invisible giant hands squeezed their lungs tight.

The vast crowd before the mountain gate seemed to have been struck by a mass immobilization spell. The anger lingering on their faces froze, shattered, and was finally covered by a layer of ghastly terror.

The weaker disciples' knees gave out, and they dropped to