Chen Yi stood before the ancestral plaques, his figure oddly conspicuous among the kneeling Taoists on the floor.
On his forehead rested a single stick of incense for seeking guidance.
Among the Taoists, the oldest, Zhao Mingyuan, wiped blood from the corner of his lips and lifted his gaze to stare at this seemingly ordinary figure, as though he were their final lifeline.
His upright stance cast an imposing shadow, arms folded behind his back. His face, faintly gaunt from battle wounds, skin pressed tightly against his bones yet far from brittle, exuded an overpowering aura of killing intent that sent chills through the hearts of the Taoists.
Nearly half of them harbored thoughts of sending him away.
But calling upon a god was easy; sending one away, nearly impossible.
At this juncture, everyone understood that they could only rely on this man to quell the storm surrounding the Sword Pool.
