A suffocating crimson wave rippled outward from the thirty-six granite pillars atop the citadel.
The pulse washed across two miles of open marsh with the heavy, deadening weight of an underwater landslide. Where the scarlet light touched the allied camp, the grass blackened and curled into grey ash. Every torch flame along the parapets shrank to a sullen blue spark.
In the allied trenches, two hundred and fifty thousand men groaned in unison.
An invisible vice clamped down upon every cultivator’s dantian.
For the Nascent Soul elders, the sensation was agonizing. Their spiritual whirlpools ground against sudden resistance, as if thick river silt had been poured into their meridians. Their combat output was severed in half in a single heartbeat.
Defensive shields sputtered out like blown candles. Sword-light lost its gleaming edge, turning dim and ragged.
“The array stones...” Patriarch Shen gasped, leaning heavily on his broadsword as his knees trembled. “They are suppressing our cores from two miles away.”
High atop the ramparts of Black-Marsh Citadel, Grand Chancellor Vaelen stood with his arms outstretched.
