That figure, two hundred meters away, was already aware that something was in this forest. He was certain of this in the way one is certain of a knife held against one's throat.
The figure in the distance turned slightly.
Even at this range, even through the trees, even without a directed spiritual pulse, the passive emanation from that body was enough. It made the air between them feel thick and pressurized, like the atmosphere before a very large lightning strike.
The demonic cultivator's eyes moved.
The clearing.
The torn robes.
The blood.
The pine needles so thoroughly soaked that the earth had turned black with it. The absolute, total silence of a forest that had contained six living women and four of his men and now contained none of those things.
Only their crystallized and consumed remnants distributed between the stomachs of his subordinates and his own meridians.
Evidence.
Every piece of it was evidence.
