The peak Golden Core sect leader. A man who had cultivated for two hundred years. A man who commanded ten thousand disciples. A man who had, moments ago, casually suggested gang-raping a princess.
His body compressed.
Not crushed. Not smashed. Compressed. The divine qi, the telekinetic force, applied uniform pressure to every cell, every tissue, every bone in his body simultaneously. The skin held for a heartbeat. Then the pressure exceeded the tensile strength of human tissue.
Zhao Kuang's body became blood pulp.
The explosion was wet. Red. The blood, mixed with fragmented bone and liquefied organs, sprayed outward in a sphere. The droplets rained down on the army below, the red mist falling like rain. The robes, the iron-gray silk, fell empty. The spiritual pressure of a peak Golden Core cultivator vanished.
Gone. In an instant. Less than an instant. A finger raised. A body gone. Blood rain.
The silence that followed was the loudest sound any of them had ever heard.
