The bruised, stagnant sky of the ancient battlefield hung motionless above the glass crater, heavy with settling ash and the faint, metallic tang of evaporated plasma.
Twenty meters ahead of Haoran, where Qing Yan's bloated phantom of Immortal King will had roared in maniacal triumph just seconds prior, there was only an immaculate, silent pocket of clean air—a mathematically exact spherical void carved out of reality by a plain iron spear thrown across entire dimension just to hit the target.
Not a single speck of dust remained; not a whisper of demonic malice lingered in the breeze.
Haoran stared at the empty space, his bare torso still gleaming slightly with the fading warmth of his primordial dragon lineage, his golden eyes cold, serene, and utterly unbothered.
DING.
Just then, his communication artifact sounded, emitting a soft, crystalline chime from his palm.
