Miserable, ear-piercing screams echoed out from within. They sounded like the cries emitted just before death. Meng Hao’s expression was the same as ever as, holding Xu Qing in his arms, he continued on flying. The lightning mist wrapped up the bags of holding and delivered them to Meng Hao, who tucked them away. The vines burrowed back into the ground. As for the eight Cultivators, they were nowhere to be seen.