"Hmmm… from the information I gathered with the help of Doomclock, this so-called envoy from the Ten Thousand Sword Sect had very terrible personality."
Wang Chen mused quietly, his gaze locked on Rong Lua—who now stood several steps away with a stiff, unnatural stillness.
"And he didn't even put Song Po in his eyes… treating him like a dog."
A faint glow flickered across Rong Lua's forehead.
If one looked closely, they would see a translucent phantom clock, its surface engraved with countless twisting, writhing runes—like a living curse.
It pulsed in and out of existence, imprinting itself deeper into the very fabric of Rong Lua's soul.
Doomclock's seal.
A perfect, absolute brand.
Once Rong Lua had reluctantly lowered his defenses—shaking like a drenched puppy—Wang Chen had slipped the seal into his spiritual space with terrifying ease.
