The movement was still very slow.
Slow enough for everyone to see the slender, fair hand emerge from beneath the deep blue great cloak.
Slow enough for everyone to see the five fingers spread and then form a loose fist, as if grasping something intangible yet immensely heavy.
Slow enough for everyone to think they had time to see clearly what would happen next.
However…
That right hand just casually—
gave a light wave.
No trajectory.
No afterimage.
No fluctuation of Magical Power.
None of the light, sound, or aura that a Foundation Establishment Cultivator's attack should invariably possess.
Only the expression on the Netherworld Master's face—a mixture of arrogance and astonishment that had yet to change—was frozen there forever.
The next instant.
WHOOSH—
A soft sound.
Like an old paper doll, licked by the flame of a candle in a mischievous child's hand.
The Netherworld Master's figure, starting from the top of his head, silently—turned to ash.
