The moment the string was plucked, all sound muted.
The silver haze suddenly joined together and swept into a frenzy. But the aether’s glow disappeared, only leaving behind the sparse notes from the instrument.
Hidden behind the beautiful music was a sharp and sonorous breath. Like an unsheathed blade, it scraped and hummed, gradually revealing its murderous intent.
Within the sparse notes, weak ripples spread from Ye Qingxuan’s fingertips, extending in all directions.
Everything in its path dimmed. Flames snuffed, fresh blood lost its color, and darkness turned into a muted gray. Everything looked unchanged, but something seemed to be dragging them further and further away.
Mist was born from the sky then scattered. It wasn’t thick—it was thin and unnoticeable until it fully enveloped the space. Like a breath in winter air, it dissipated.
A vague chill rose, seeping into every open crevice.
