The waters of Nan Hong, the seven sons of the Immortal Sect.
At this moment, there was a sensation that a storm was coming and the city was about to collapse.
A demon of the Fifth Level of Returning Void, while a mere vanguard in the Dragon Palace, was now attracting the attention of many Baiyu Capital Cultivators.
They sat quietly in their caves.
Their thoughts began to drift.
The heart of cultivation, silent for who knows how many years, was now faintly stirring with ripples.
Behind each seated figure, there lay a past that was astonishing to behold, with their illustrious names ceaselessly sung by disciples.
But beneath the empty reputation lay hearts of the Dao worn down by eons, no longer able to withstand the torture.
"..."
A robe woven with golden thread streaked across the sky, not yet landing on the Ling Yun Sect's bas-relief.
Wei Yuanzhou felt a dense and nearly undisguised malice envelop him before he even touched down.
