Fang Qingyu remained seated upright.
His eyes, like melted gold, were downcast, gazing at the ground before him.
That hard and cold face seemed carved from the hardest granite, without a ripple of emotion.
Only the hands resting on his knees, the ten fingers curled ever so slightly, the knuckles turning slightly white from exertion.
The rhythm of his breathing appeared to be just a fraction slower than usual.
The whole person was like a volcano repressed to the extreme.
Beneath the calm surface, a magma capable of burning everything was surging and boiling.
Facing the majesty of heaven with a mortal body.
Yan Shouzheng's words were like a heavy hammer that violently smashed open the door to the ultimate path in his heart.
It wasn't fear, it wasn't retreat.
It was excitement!
It was an uncontrollable, almost boiling desire!
To strip away all power, using the purest, most primitive flesh and blood, to challenge the thunder! To embrace the storm! To measure the lava!
