At the foot of the mountain peak stood a huge cave entrance, and around the entrance were carved countless eerie runes, those runes flickering with a ghostly green light, as if innumerable pairs of malevolent eyes were spying on them.
In front of the cave entrance stood two guards, clad in black robes, their faces devoid of expression, eyes vacant, like two soulless shells, evidently cultivators whose souls had also been harvested.
“Stop! Who are you?”
One guard barked sharply, his voice echoing through the sinister valley, sounding all the more horrifying.
Hu Mazi was just about to step forward when Chen Ping reached out to halt him, his gaze conveying an unquestionable authority, and said, “Let me handle this.”
He advanced slowly, each step as though treading upon the enemy’s heart, his eyes fixed icily on the two guards, then enunciating each word deliberately, “We are here to take your worthless lives!”
No sooner had the words left his mouth than Chen Ping unleashed a mighty aura, that aura surging forth like a tumultuous tsunami, instantly engulfing the two guards.
The guards had no time even to react, like two ants battered by colossal waves, they were pulverised to dust by the overwhelming aura, not managing so much as a cry before dissolving into a heap of mangled, bloody pulp.
“Let’s go, we are entering.”
Chen Ping’s countenance remained serene, as if he had just accomplished something utterly trivial, turning to Hu Mazi as he spoke.
The pair stepped into the cave mouth and found a long passage within, ghostly green oil lamps positioned at intervals along both walls, their dim glow wavering uncertainly, as if liable to snuff out at any instant, lending the passage an added air of strangeness.
The passage ended at the mountaintop, where loomed a vast hall, and in the hall’s centre stood a massive stone platform, its surface etched with eerie runes that emitted a chilling luminescence, enough to send shivers down the spine of any beholder.
Upon the stone platform lay a dozen or so cultivators, their eyes tightly shut, faces ashen as parchment, breaths feeble, plainly having had their souls extracted, their lives now teetering on the brink.
Around the hall stood a dozen black-clad figures, intoning bizarre incantations, the chants low and ominous, as if hellish summons drifting up from the abyss, evidently engaged in some nefarious rite.
“As expected, they are conducting their wicked ritual here! These deranged fiends treat others’ lives as naught, today I shall ensure they pay dearly!”
Hu Mazi declared in fury, flames of rage blazing in his eyes.
A glint of razor-sharp killing intent flashed in Chen Ping’s eyes, that intent akin to frost blades in the depths of winter, enough to freeze the blood, and he said coldly, “Today marks your end! Beneath my sword, all evil shall be purged.”
No sooner had he spoken than Chen Ping sprang forth, like an eagle unfurling its wings to soar aloft, hurtling towards the black-clad figures.
His form traced a lethal arc through the gloomy hall, bearing an irresistible impetus.
The black-clad men whirled about upon seeing him, crimson light gleaming in their eyes, like a horde of beasts seized by demons, clearly ensnared by foul sorcery and bereft of their own minds.
“Kill them!”
One black-clad man bellowed harshly, his voice shrill and grating.
The dozen black-clad men charged at Chen Ping all at once, their motions synchronised to perfection, like a cadre of drilled soldiers, plainly honed by rigorous discipline.
Yet before Chen Ping, these foes were no sturdier than ants.
Chen Ping struck with fists and feet, every blow infused with prodigious force, as if apt to sunder mountains and shatter boulders.
His movements flowed with liquid grace, fluid and unbroken, the black-clad men powerless to withstand them, hurled airborne one by one to crash heavily upon the ground, the cracks of splintering bones resounding in succession, leaving them unable to rise again.
