The Magical Combat between the True Monarchs and the Bodhisattvas had reached a fever pitch.
Sixteen against sixteen—thirty-two figures standing at the pinnacle of the Profound Yellow realm—had turned a million-mile stretch of the Celestial Vault into a crucible of the Great Dao.
Every clash of Divine Techniques sent chaotic ripples, visible to the naked eye, blasting outward.
Wherever the ripples passed, space peeled away in flakes like old plaster, revealing a deeper, more dangerous undercurrent of void beneath.
An ordinary Cultivator, with just a single glance from afar, would have their Divine Soul fractured by the lingering Dao Rhyme—a power both utterly chaotic and boundlessly immense.
And yet, the very cause of this cataclysmic slaughter, the World Honored One's Handwriting, now hovered silently in the temporary "vacuum" at the heart of the battlefield.
