Less than a hundred miles from Three Python Mountain, in a sunken part of the hills.
Within the valley, the eel of death soared towards the sky, with countless runes flashing chaotically.
The rocky canyon walls were crisscrossed and jagged, and the ground was pitted, every crevice a testament to the scars left by the strikes of magic treasures.
The fierce clash of mana from two cultivators at the Core Formation Late Stage resounded, and yet all was obscured by an array guarding the mouth of the valley and above the Sky Dome, preventing anything from spreading outward.
"Huo Moqing! The Xuantian Sect will not let you go!"
Alongside a scream filled with bitter anguish, a middle-aged cultivator with a golden crown lay fallen on the ground, his chest pierced with a large hole, as if his True Core had been gouged out, dying with his eyes wide open.
