The resulting massive boom echoed out in all directions. The Western Desert Cultivator let out a blood-curdling scream. His body shook as the fist totem shattered. Blood sprayed from his mouth as the three-headed flood dragon totem disintegrated. He retreated backward several paces, his face pale. Before he could say a single word, a single Blood Finger slammed into his forehead.
A tremor ran through his body, and he toppled to the ground, dead.
Meng Hao approached. He looked down at the dead Western Desert Cultivator, whose name he didn’t even know. He knelt down next to the body and fished out a bag of holding. His eyes shone with thoughtfulness.
“So, it seems I’m not alone in this place…. These Western Desert Cultivators have some strange techniques. They’re as different from those of the Southern Domain as black is from white…. If not, a single Blood Finger would have been sufficient to slay a Pseudo Core Cultivator.” Giving a final glance to the Western Desert Cultivator, he noticed that the totem on the man’s arms were fading and transforming into black ink.