Ma Shouxiang nodded in agreement, and the other two stewards behind him also responded together.
Zhang Yan gazed at the vast mountain ranges, shook his sleeves open, and with a sharp shout, transformed into a swirling mist that ascended into the clouds. The three masters watched as a sword rainbow tore through the atmosphere, streaking northwestward. After a flash of brilliance, it vanished completely, leaving only the lingering echo of sword whistles in their ears.
A thousand miles away from Bronze Mountain, atop a mound stood a jade couch measuring ten feet long. A red-robed elder lounged upon it, his deep-set eyes, long hair, and beard giving him a haggard look. His crimson robe was akin to a blood cloud, marking him unmistakably as a demon cultivator.
This scene alone was shocking enough, but before the couch lay a woman, her jade-white leg torn off, blood pooling around her — a ghastly sight. Yet her expression was vacant, her gaze dazed, as if entirely oblivious to pain.
