The interior of the vault was brightly lit, with neatly arranged gold bars shimmering enticingly under the lights.
However, this wealth that captivated worldly eyes did not interest Ye Qingzhou at all. His gaze was directly fixed on the unremarkable small door at the deepest part—an evil aura that made him nauseous emanated from there.
There were no locks on the small door, only twelve blood-drop-shaped grooves.
Ye Qingzhou pointed his fingers like a sword and gently slashed, and the restrictions on the door shattered like thin paper. A piercing screech emerged from behind the door, as if hundreds of desperate souls were howling simultaneously.
Upon stepping into the secret room, Ye Qingzhou's white robe fluttered without wind.
In the center of this less than 100 square meters room, twelve bizarrely shaped gold bricks were piled up—they were not standard rectangular shapes, but twisted human forms as if in painful struggle.
