Deathly stillness pervaded. The only sound was the howling wind and rain, sharp as knives. Above the firmament, it seemed as though a layer of thick, dark ink had been splashed across it, rolling and sweeping with the wind.
Compared to just moments ago, when the members of the Imperial Clan looked excited, as if victory was within their grasp, they now resembled mourners at a wake.
Their Young Master, the Imperial Son, had died without even touching the edge of his opponent's robe?
CLATTER.
Chen Yang stood with his sword, his damaged armor crackling with his movements.
He was as indifferent as the wind, reserved in his speech and expression.
Though the days of his youth were long past, he was still the same undefeated War God of the State from years ago, who rode into battle with an aura that reached the clouds. Whether it was the Imperial Clan or the cultivational sects of Yuning Mountain, none of their noble identities could compare to Chen Yang at this moment.
