A cold, mechanical system prompt sounded in his mind.
Xu Wuyi felt his body "sink," then "rise."
When he opened his eyes again, he was standing in a space of pure white.
Above, below, left, and right were all endless white. There was no ground, no sky; he was simply suspended in mid-air.
But gravity existed. He could feel the familiar pull.
A hundred meters ahead, a human figure slowly coalesced.
It was a man in simple gray clothes, appearing to be around thirty years old. His face was ordinary, his gaze serene.
He held a sword in his hand.
The blade was long and narrow, entirely cyan, and without any adornment—just like the man himself, ordinary to an extreme.
But Xu Wuyi's intuition was screaming alarms.
Danger!
Extreme danger!
The sword was merely held quietly in hand, yet it felt as if it had already pierced through all defenses to point directly at the space between his brows.
The Illusion did not speak, only watching Xu Wuyi quietly.
