The atmosphere inside the bedroom surged like a rising tide.
Han Ling's hands formed a series of seals, spiritual power slicing through the air like blades. Each transformation forced back the weasel demon-immortal's onslaught. Cracks had already spread across the walls, dust rained from the ceiling, and from the shadows came a low, eerie shriek.
"Hsssss—!"
The sound was like teeth shattering inside the creature's maw, filled with malice both turbid and sharp. Its fur was half scorched, half rotting, its eye sockets sunken, yet its golden pupils gleamed with bloodlust and venomous hate.
Han Ling's voice was cold, his rebuke cutting through the chaos:
"Fallen after ascending to immortality, and still you dare to linger in a mortal dwelling? Today, I'll send you to true oblivion."
With a twist of his wrist, lightning flared in his palm. Silver-white thunder burst from his fingertips, striking straight toward the weasel.
"Boom—!"
