Standing atop the dilapidated altar in Biluo City, commanding with a cultivation at the peak of the Immortal Monarch, stood Yan Feng.
His black robe was torn to shreds by the demonic wind, its ragged edges dancing wildly, like a desperate soul struggling in the dark night.
His face seemed sculpted by time and war, deep wrinkles filled with exhaustion.
But those sunken eyes burned with two smoldering flames of anger, like solitary stars in a cold night, steadfastly locked onto the demonic army outside the city, surging like a raging tide.
The formation flag gripped in his hand was covered with cracks, its flag face riddled with holes and stained with blood.
It was a tragic emblem, left by the backfire of demonic power, the clashes with otherworldly demons, and the relentless day and night defense, marking each scar and damage with defiance and resolve.
Surrounding the altar.
Cultivators from the Five Continents gathered, sitting at the five corners, serving as anchors.
