The emerald cloud didn’t scatter into the rainy sky.
It coiled tightly into a speeding up spiral, drawn inward by a sudden and violent low-pressure empty pocket centered on Lu Chen’s chest.
Across the terrace, Grandmaster Yu froze. His withered fingers gripped the dragon-bone staff so tightly that his knuckles creaked.
“Impossible,” the old man rasped through cracked lips. “Nothing with blood survives the bile of an Asura.”
Through the thinning veil of green fog, Lu Chen’s dark shape remained upright.
His heavy dead-house oilcloth apron had been burned away, reduced to smoldering shreds of scorched hemp.
His bare torso was exposed to the biting mountain downpour.
Yet not a single droplet of rain touched his skin.
