After four hundred years, the power of the Swordsmith once again descended upon this dead silent city.
The Emperor's Hand controlled everything, ignoring the rampant shadow of the Tower, even cooperating with all that he desired to accomplish.
Fei Gong's correction reconstructed everything, the spreading flames of the burning fortress flowed through the countless spiritual circuits like spider silk, rejoicing and soaring endlessly.
The invisible net had already been woven.
In the song that seemed to come from Hell.
"What is this?!"
Wuyou's pupils contracted, the shadow underfoot surged like mud, Puppets and corpses crawled out from within. One after another, souls dissolved within it appeared in wailing, constantly questioning.
In the end, the once-called craftsman's fragmented skull lit up its eyes, staring blankly at the vague symbol on its shell.
Thus, former fears and nightmares seemed to be awakened.
"Jian... Jian..."
