Zhao Xuenyang is dead.
Now Jiang Wang stands before his corpse.
Song Wanxi merely traced her fingertips lightly and dismantled all the restraints Zhao Xuenyang had placed upon him.
The gap between a True Demon and a Godly cultivator is insurmountable, even for an unparalleled genius like Zhao Xuenyang.
Perhaps only someone like Zhongxuan Chuliang, the Eastern Region's foremost Godly cultivator, has the qualification to contend with a True Man.
Of course, given Jiang Wang's current strength, he is far from qualified to speculate on battles at that level.
Zhao Xuenyang's eyes are wide open.
Wide open.
As if still questioning: "Well, well, you've actually deceived me."
But he will never ask the question aloud again.
How radiant was this genius? How dazzling the reputation? Once dead, all fades into smoke and clouds.
Zhao Xuenyang believed that Jiang Wang had summoned a True Demon from the All-world desolate graves, but in reality, it was merely a blood puppet.
