CREEEEEAK—SNAP!
With one brisk tug of Hong Ling’s iron crowbar, the yellow municipal sealing tape parted and the heavy Abyssal Corpse-Ice lid of the hundred-foot coffin slid halfway open.
Inside the coffin, Ghost Ancestor Xuan Ming—the thirty-thousand-year-old Half-Step Rank 9 terror of the Nine-Nether Underworld—squeezed his wrinkled green eyelids shut and clutched his bony knees to his chest.
Because Pei Xuan’s [All-Drying Sunny Palm] had just slapped him back into his box with the weight of ten billion stars, the Ghost Ancestor’s shadowy phantom form had been forced into 100% solid physical bone and flesh. And right now, lying on a slab of sub-zero corpse-ice in a solid body without his Black-Styx Yin-sea to numb his nerves, the full, horrifying backlash of thirty thousand years of flawed underworld cultivation was hitting him all at once!
BRRRRRR—CLACK-CLACK-CLACK!
Every single joint in the old monster’s spine, hips, and knees felt like it was stuffed with crushed glass and liquid nitrogen. His pale blue lips were trembling violently, and frost was forming inside his nostrils with every breath.
“Go ahead and strike, Galaxy Lord Pei!” Ghost Ancestor Xuan Ming croaked, trying to sound like a fearless martyr even though his teeth were chattering so hard he bit his own lip. “This Ancestor lost in a single palm! If you want to scatter my thirty-thousand-year ghost soul or refine my bones into a lamp-post, just make it quick! At least if my soul is scattered, my lower back and my knees will finally stop…
