Chapter 0079: The Final End

What kind of sensation was this? Orochimaru contemplated—a formless force enveloped him, altering the flow of time around him. His own movements remained unchanged, yet the people and objects nearby moved in a “slow” manner. For instance, that elderly Otsutsuki clansman’s death and collapse—collapsing should have been a swift action, but from his perspective, it took ages, a single fall stretching out for decades.

“I understand now, it’s not the flow of time that’s changed—”

“Why aren’t you staying in the training camp? What are you doing here?” Mutong stared at the two before her, torn and vexed. She was just about to send Lüyi to call them back when a sudden gust of cold wind swept in from outside. Mu Zhiyue wrapped her clothes tighter and instructed Lüyi to close the door.

Ruge recalled the original plot, and she couldn’t help but think that Yan Mingzhu, having suffered several setbacks at her hands, was probably going to act sooner than planned.

Under such a crushing disparity, the master of Tian Cang Sect had finally gone mad. Having already lost everything, now shunned by all powers of the Reverse Heaven Realm, he was utterly isolated, without a single ally left.

“No buts! Even if it costs me my life, I’m willing. Besides, I’m certain I can bring her back!” Yun Haotian interrupted Hong Guang.

Yet, why—knowing it was a trap—did Moxi still push Yichu in? Was it simply because the other party was Long Jiu’er?

Who was this person, truly? If he was indeed from the Mo family, to act with such impartiality was a rare and precious quality.

She was in agony, drifting between life and death, fainting from the pain only to be jolted awake again, this torment repeating for a full two hours.

Watching the spiritual energy being drawn from Li Qing, Mei Qingmu finally allowed a faint smile to slip across his lips, but it quickly faded as he composed himself once more.

Within the entire lineage of the Hidden Cultivators, only the Heaven-ranked factions might possess alchemists skilled in the art of pill-making.

Yu Fei surreptitiously pouted—this was nothing but you keeping yourself awake and not letting anyone else sleep, all under the pretense of doing it for our own good.

Feng Hua felt as if something suddenly jammed in his mind. In the thousand years he’d been lost, though he lacked full awareness, in his foggy state he’d often wondered: if he hadn’t been so stubborn when gravely wounded all those years ago, how different might things have been?

From the north, a cold wind swept in with a mournful whistle, brushing over the land. The whistling was like a dirge, mourning the world’s suffering. The chill brought not only cold, but also the first snow of spring. A late spring chill was not rare, but what was rare was that it brought a great snowfall, flakes as large as goose feathers.

Because of Lady Huo’s temperament, she was not close to these people, yet there was no real enmity between them either; each simply minded their own affairs.

Li Luo’s figure swayed slightly as he felt the active curse within him being suppressed. Grateful, he shot a look of thanks to Qingci and Aqi.

Lin Haoyu was a little surprised—what had gotten into Old Wang today for him to actually take the initiative to thank him?

Because of this, the village had gained another peculiar sight: people in their twenties or thirties still being chased and beaten by their parents.

Three days later, as the group traveled on, they discovered a high, reddish-brown platform jutting out from the earth—strikingly conspicuous amid the pale green grasslands.

Xu Liang knelt before the grave to bid his master farewell, pouring out heartfelt words. Moved to tears, he couldn’t hold them back as he recalled every detail of his life here. Decades had slipped by like a fleeting moment.

His left shoulder and the left side of his body were gravely wounded, with several places where white bone gleamed through.

The Grand World of Tianyuan was vast, its lands boundless. Lin Feng had exhausted every means, and after more than three months of arduous travel, finally arrived at the capital of the Great Zhou Dynasty, Tianjing.

Chen Daolin pondered for a while, and then suddenly recalled Old Dou, the dreamer, that fervent supporter of Imperial Sandism.

At present, these were true apex figures, standing atop the world of Canglan, able to dictate its future. The loss of twelve such supreme beings at once—such devastation was incomparable, even to the all-out war previously waged between the Xingheng Empire and the Canglan Dynasty.