One after another, ordinary phantoms began to appear within the altar. There were young men, old men, and youths—all different, yet all very much the same.
They were all mortals, all Martial Artists. Every single one of them was circulating the North Nether Firewood Skill, possessing a vile core of Devouring, yet they were each wreathed in the faint aura of mortal life, an outer shell of great benevolence.
They had somehow coalesced the will of the people, for they were the most renowned great heroes of the generation from all corners of the Martial Arts World.
Elder Huang even spotted a familiar face among the hundred or so figures: the old man who had cut off his own arm back at the inn. Now, however, both of his arms were perfectly normal.
