The air above the Han Family valley shimmered with sword intent. Threads of Spiritual Qi spiraled like dancing silver snakes, twisting and cracking the clouds.
The once quiet battlefield was a wreck of blood, burnt soil, and broken trees.
Under Wei Ji's distant control, Han Zukong slowly turned around, his expression still blank, his breath steady.
Behind him, the demonic cultivator became lifeless after being impaled through the head and stood frozen in death, the body swaying lightly as the wind brushed against it.
The metallic smell of blood lingered heavily. Then, cutting through the silence, came a commanding voice from the sky.
"Identify yourself!"
Han Zukong, pretending to be shocked, raised his head.
