In the blink of an eye, three months have passed.
Feng Haiyang's eyes fixed on the Tribulation Water before him. Among the turbulent, murky waves, over thirty demonic shadows drifted like fish swimming at the bottom of a stream, swaying back and forth, making soft rustling sounds as if whispering, endlessly lingering by his ears.
In his plan, he needed to gather at least a hundred demons before he felt confident to confront the Xuanmen disciples in battle. As it stood, these were still far from sufficient.
Just as he was about to resume operating his technique for sacrificial refinement, he suddenly felt a fierce tremor in his sleeve, as if the Junyang Pot was incessantly bouncing, forcing him to pause midway and take out the treasure pot from his Sleeve Bag.
When he held it in his hand, it still struggled and trembled restlessly, as if it would fly away at the slightest loosened grip and disappear without a trace.
