His hand was pale and gaunt, knuckles slightly protruding, palm facing upward.
A wisp of purple-black poisonous smoke rose silently.
The smoke initially was just a thin filament, but upon contact with the muddy rain, it quickly corroded it, transforming into more poison smoke.
Thus, in everyone's view, the poisonous smoke rapidly spread into a very deep smoke curtain.
The smoke curtain was neither tall nor wide, yet extremely dense, like a thin ink-colored veil spread in the night.
Sand and broken stones fell into it, the sound became muffled.
The Rolling Stone crashed into it, supported by the toxic fog, its speed sharply reduced, large black spots appeared on its surface, starting from the outside, it seemed to be gnawed away by something, inch by inch quickly disappearing.
Yue Qingshan's pupils slightly contracted.
