The curvature bubble compresses space, the air instantly compressed into something akin to plasma, and the sudden shift in pressure creates an overpressure that expands at several times the speed of sound.
Just the aftermath alone blasts a fifty-meter-deep pit on the lawn in front of the villa.
One side of the pit collapses in a semicircular shape, while the other side, protected by villa's strength, has soil layer surfaces that are smooth as mirrors, appearing exceedingly eerie.
Meanwhile, in the high sky, the wind howls, and the sun at the horizon inexplicably enlarges two-fold—it's not a real star, but a bulb texture high on the three-dimensional map.
Li Cheng releases his arms, his embrace now empty as if the lines composing Wan Ling have already burned away.
"Hehe."
A taunting laughter rings from above his head; Wan Ling tears open the space with her hands, crawling out intact, "Visual culling, plus frame generation, kid."
