Everyone stared at Shen Haoran's blade with eyes dilated to their limits, paralyzed by a visceral, instinctual terror that froze the marrow in their bones.
It was not merely the fear of death, nor was it the intimidation of facing a higher tier cultivator, instead it was a cosmic dread born from staring into an abyss that defied the fundamental architecture of existence.
Across the vast, blood-soaked plains, over three hundred thousand native warriors, seasoned elders of the Four Sacred Grounds, and even the proudest academy prodigies stopped moving entirely.
Their chests heaved in frantic, ragged gasps as they struggled to draw breath from an atmosphere that felt suddenly devoid of air, warmth, and vitality.
Cold, greasy sweat poured down their faces in torrents, soaking through leather tunics and enchanted robes.
