The million Demonic Cultivators fell deathly silent.
The silence was so thick it felt tangible, pressing down on every heart and making it hard to even breathe.
The fleeting flash of brilliant yellow light, the image of the Netherworld Master turning to dust without a sound—it was all seared into the depths of every witness's Divine Soul, impossible to forget.
'What was that?'
No one saw the attack's trajectory.
No one sensed any fluctuation of Magical Power.
There was only the instinctual shudder from the deepest part of their Divine Souls, telling them that this was a terror they had never before seen, or even imagined, in their entire lives.
Atop the broken cliff, Qi Yun retracted his gaze.
He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his Deep Blue Daoist Robe utterly Immovable in the Yin Wind of the chasm.
His sharply defined eyes lowered slightly, sweeping over the million Demonic Cultivators below.
Not a single one dared to meet his gaze.
