The Fallen Gods were thinning, but the same could be said for the cultivator's side.
Chen Gaoyong kept his expression calm as anxiety was brewing a storm in his mind.
Where was the Ivory Sword Saint? Why hadn't he defeated the puppeteer yet to relieve them of this onslaught? Cries of battle, death and horror sang together in the song of war. There was no respite.
Two Fallen Gods stood before him, tall and monumental, their faces eerily still. And when they moved they seemed almost sluggish, their limbs dragging behind their large dark bodies.
When they struck that sluggishness evaporated.
Chen Gaoyong jumped, narrowly avoiding an arm that shot at him and embedded itself in the ground. He landed on its log-like arm and ran with a ring of talismans floating around in three spiraling whirls. They wound around the monster like a sentient rope, an elongated serpent. Artillery fire rained down; spells and arrows decorated the skies.
