"Master Zhong Dao, we will report truthfully to the Sect Leader." The leader of the elite cultivators spoke with a firm tone.
Zhong Dao turned his back on them and replied indifferently, "Go ahead."
Huazhang Country.
The main hall of the Imperial Ancestral Temple was brightly lit.
"Poof!" The Huazhang Country Lord suddenly spat out a mouthful of fresh blood and collapsed onto the ground.
Crash.
The incense burner shattered into several pieces, scattering the ashes of sandalwood incense everywhere.
Han Song was already sitting on the ground, his breath weak. His literary energy was severely overdrawn, and his heart spirit excessively consumed.
Zheng Jing had long been unconscious, curled up at the foot of the altar, his complexion ashen gray, his breathing so weak it was almost imperceptible.
Wang Shu leaned against the wall, his face like gold paper, his limbs limp. His eyes were half-open and half-closed, pupils dilated, ready to faint at any moment.
