The cataclysmic attack stunned everyone present into breathless petrification as they stared up at the massive spirit avatar cleaving through the firmament.
The titanic, pitch-black blade resembling that of Azathoth descended with the weight of an entire collapsing star, dragging behind it an apocalyptic wake of devouring void sludge and weeping spatial tears.
The air groaned, the clouds were pulverized into nothingness, and the atmospheric pressure alone flattened the earth beneath it, carving a chasm thousands of feet deep before the blade even touched the ground.
Seeing this extinction-level strike descending upon their heads, the hundreds of thousands of native cultivators fell to their knees, their minds blank, waiting for their flesh and souls to be erased from the cycle of reincarnation.
Every single observer on the battlefield, from the lowliest junior disciple to the seasoned elders of the Four Sacred Grounds, thought that the natives were completely done for.
