After the ancient war that predated ancient times, the Immortal Martial Battlefield had never been as silent as it was at this moment.
Stretching over a hundred thousand li, not a trace of humanity was present, save for the occasional space rifts that drifted by, accompanied by the cold howling wind, leaving no other sound to be heard.
Under the orders of the various Holy Lands, the cultivators who had been surrounding the area began to retreat one after another, except for a group from Tai Xu Holy Land to the south.
Soul Condensing Monks no longer posed any threat to Chu Zheng, who could leave at any time should he choose to do so; there was no need to incur unnecessary losses.
The many retreating Soul Condensing Monks all had clouds of worry in their hearts.
Nowadays, with more than eight years left until the Great Tournament of Ten Thousand Sects, no one could predict what level Chu Zheng's cultivation would reach by then.
