The rusted iron plates of the basin floor tore apart with the deafening shriek of collapsing metal. Gravity seized the combatants, dragging them violently into the pitch-black abyss below. The air rushed past, thick with the abrasive scent of ancient oxidation and stale blood.
Wang Jian did not panic. As the ground gave way beneath his boots, his abyssal eyes tracked the descending figures in the darkness. He had no intention of allowing the chaotic fall to separate him from his prizes. He forcibly circulated his Stellar Demonic Qi, bypassing the restrictive ambient pressure of the island. He did not attempt to fly; fighting the downward pull would only drain his reserves and alert the others to his true strength. Instead, he projected thick, invisible threads of Demonic Qi outward like a grasping net.
