Bai Hu's pupils grew a little vacant, even her struggling movements came to a halt, as if she were staring at some utterly incomprehensible monster.
"Wildfire never quite burns it all, the spring breeze brings it back to life; the so‑called teeming multitudes of the Old World, to someone at her level or mine, what difference is there between them and a dream, a bubble? Cut down one batch, another batch appears, in the end you can't cut them all. What a pity—Lower Cultivators are Lower Cultivators after all."
Bai Hu finally couldn't endure it any longer; the surging emotions spilled out from her mouth, yet in the end only two words remained.
"Shut up."
"And what if I insist on talking?" Zi Yuan's golden eyes flickered; she merely clasped her hands behind her back and spoke lazily, "The dregs of the Old World are nothing but my provisions. Do they even count as people? You and those rebels who help you—"
"—were born to die."
