The entire dojo, filled with an ever-thickening Buddha's glow, enveloped Qin Ming. A grand chanting of Zen resounded in his heart, deafeningly.
However, he stood as firm as a rock, with his hands behind his back. Outside his body, a thousand cicadas chirped in unison; a pair of hands tore through the dense Buddha's glow, rendering him seemingly immune to all techniques.
The wandering monk was shocked, secretly thinking, "What's happening? The chanting of the Bodhisattva's martial hall should be enough to suppress a great demon. How is it that it's having no effect on him?"
Even the Buddha sons and Buddhist nun had ripples in their eyes. This was the spiritual radiance of the Bodhisattva's martial hall, yet it couldn't suppress a Grandmaster?
"Several millennia of decay, perhaps the spirit essence around here is nearly depleted," guessed an old monk in the mid-stage of Grandmaster.
