The wind on the rocky ridge had stopped completely.
The air felt thick, cold, and hard, like standing under a stone ceiling that could drop at any second.
"Qing'er, help out that woman," Haoran transmitted through their private link, his thought calm, steady, and flat.
"Understood, young master," came the swift, sweet whisper right in his mind.
Down in the crater, the Sword Emperor still had his rough, calloused fingers locked around Wei Zhingyi's pale wrist, squeezing so hard the bone made small clicking sounds.
Ye Fan was still sitting in the dust, gasping for air, clutching his knees like a lost dog.
Then the dirt moved.
A pitchnblack darkness, darker than the night sky, slid over the shattered stones without making a single rustle.
It moved like cold water pouring through a crack, rushing straight between the old swordsman's boots and the kneeling fox woman.
SHK-SHK-SHK!
Seven long, jagged spikes of solid darkness shot straight out of the ground!
