For a time, neither of them spoke.
Wang Chen regarded Zi Han with an outwardly indifferent gaze, but the faint glimmer buried deep within his pupils betrayed his displeasure. It wasn't anger, not yet—rather a restrained sharpness, like a blade kept deliberately sheathed.
The cold winter wind swept between them, howling across the ruined land, carrying with it the distant stench of blood and demonic corruption. To the mortals far below, that wind was nothing more than nature's cruelty, but between these two figures it felt heavier, laden with intent and unspoken judgment.
Zi Han closed her eyes briefly, as if steadying herself, then exhaled a long, controlled breath. Only then did she speak.
"I do not doubt your strength, fellow Daoist Wang," she said softly, her voice calm but weighted. "But Original Existences cannot be destroyed by brute force alone."
