At the very back of the gathered crowd, veiled by the shadows of the floating Profound Arks and the dust of the landing craters, Yun Li watched the display of dominance with a curling lip of pure disdain.
To him, the scene at the center of the clearing was a farce—a grotesque theater of entitlement.
These people, these "geniuses" and "royals," all relied on the silver spoons they were born with and the centuries of history backing their names.
They acted as though the world were their personal footstool simply because they had been breathing spirit-qi longer than most.
If I, Yun Li, had cultivated for as long as these fossils, I would have already stepped into the Saint Realm, he thought, his jaw tightening.
He looked at his own hands, feeling the turbulent, potent power of the Falling Immortal Sutra thrumming beneath his skin.
