"The sky has dropped tens of thousands of zhang, and the earth has shrunk a million li... this world has grown smaller."
Great Yan.
The Primordial Demon Sect.
Deep within a dazzlingly bright formation through which demonic shadows faintly flitted.
The phantom of an old man stood with his hands behind his back, his head tilted toward the sky.
His gaze wandered slightly as he murmured to himself.
Beside him, Nascent Soul Cultivators of the Demon Sect stood behind him, hands lowered and eyes downcast.
Even though they knew full well that the man before them had only a wisp of remnant soul left, every one of them held their breath in fearful suspense, not daring to make the slightest sound.
The old man came back to himself, glanced around at the extremely tense Demon Sect cultivators, and suddenly smiled faintly.
"Why is no one talking? Compared to your masters and grandmasters, you lot still fall far too short. Liven up a little..."
At this, he seemed to recall something, and a trace of pity appeared on his face.
"Speaking of which, Ren'er was much more sensible than you. A pity he kept things hidden in his heart and refused to tell this old man. Alas, tell me, if this old man ascended, would I not lend him a hand?"
"He just had to sneak out on his own... if the world outside were truly so easy to navigate, would this old man have stayed here for so many years?"
He rambled on like a man in his twilight years.
He paid no heed to whether the cultivators beside him wanted to listen.
Yet none of those cultivators dared show even the slightest unusual expression.
What had happened earlier had utterly extinguished any thought of resistance.
As Demon Sect cultivators,