Except for the distant, icy roar of True Immortal Yun, the world held only the lament of the five Red Dragons.
These five Red Dragons had crazily struggled under Zhang's Qingjing Bamboo, rebellious and wild, yet now they stared blankly at the chariot that had lost its brilliance, their dragon eyes mournful, their cries pitiful.
Their previously lifelike long whiskers, scales, even dragon horns and claws, were peeling and drifting away, transforming into red-golden runes, resembling flying blossoms burning with blood, descending from high in the sky, falling towards the ground.
Yet, the countless cultivators on the ground paid no heed to this scene, instead, they all silently looked up at the inconspicuous Zheng Fa in the sky.
Everyone could see that Zheng Fa was greatly exhausted:
The sword light that had just illuminated the sky now appeared only as fireflies.
His distant and tiny figure swayed precariously in the air.
