"We are here for the artifact," Zhao Kuang said. His narrow face was calm. Patient. The face of a man who had brought an army and expected cooperation. "Hand it over, and we leave."
"There is no artifact!" Jin Wuchen roared. His Golden Core energy blazed, pushing against the combined pressure. The sky shook. The clouds spiraled. But the pressure of four peak Golden Core sect leaders and ten thousand cultivators was too much. His aura flickered. Wavered. Bent.
Behind him, the four elders rose higher. Biyu's sharp face was white. Hanlin's white beard was trembling. Suwen's kind face was tight with fear. Tianqing's young handsome face was slick with sweat.
And behind the elders, a figure appeared.
