Who could possibly harbor such a deep-seated hatred for Great Liang? It could only be the people from the Old Zhou Land.
They were meant to be the masters of the New Dynasty of the World, destined to enslave the Liang People, wield power over all lands, and become the glorious citizens of a new Dynasty.
Now.
Three emperors of the Great Zhou had fallen.
Everything had reverted to its original state.
Not only were their lives no better, they had actually grown worse. Their hatred for the Wind Snow Sword Immortal, and for Great Liang, ran bone-deep.
"Sikong."
"To think it was you."
In his memories, the one presiding over the blood sacrifice rituals—be it to extend the lifespans of the Immortals or to use human lives to wear down the chasm of Sword Intent—was always that figure in the Crimson Robe.
He hadn't seen him in five years.
