Deprived of his harvest, Grand Elder Feng Xuan’s face turned fully gray.
The noble, philosophical mask of a spiritual patriarch peeled away like scorched paint. Beneath it remained only the raw, desperate terror of an ancient parasite staring down the barrel of living starvation.
“Then perish by iron,” Feng Xuan whispered.
He reached into the sleeve of his robe. Then he drew a slender, three-foot blade: the Autumn Mist Flying Sword.
It was an old family relic forged from pure star-core white-gold. It hummed with the clean, terrifying hum of a Soul Formation sovereign’s personal spiritual weapon.
Feng Xuan didn’t invoke a domain rule. He didn’t query a stele.
He lunged forward with raw physical driving force, intending to bifurcate Lin Ke and Meng Shan with pure, unassisted clockwork violence.
*
