Li Ling slowly pushed himself up from the ground.
His cheek burned, his jaw ached, and his ears rang faintly.
There was even a slight metallic taste in his mouth, not because his body could not heal such a small injury, but because the force behind that casual slap had penetrated past flesh and struck something deeper, making his blood and qi tremble together.
If this had been anyone else, perhaps they would have roared, or heck, maybe they would have cried.
It was even possible that they would have felt shame so intense that their Dao Heart cracked on the spot.
After all, for a cultivator, especially a demonic cultivator, face was not some empty cultural concept.
It was the visible expression of power, status, dignity, deterrence, and future value.
To be slapped in public like this, immediately after being crowned Demon Emperor and accepted as the Sect Master's personal disciple, was not merely physical humiliation, but a direct crushing of his newly formed prestige.
