Chen Ping’s figure shuttled through the crowd, so fast that only afterimages were left.
Each of his swords is extremely accurate, stabbing or slashing, always able to penetrate the enemy’s flaws when there is no time to fire.
Sometimes there was no need to even use the dragon-slaying sword, just a swing of the hand, and the golden spiritual power would turn into a sharp blade and cut the throats of several monks.
In just a moment, dozens of monks in the camp had been killed, leaving only the skull altar still emitting a faint green light.
Chen Ping walked slowly to the altar, looking at the souls struggling in pain in the green light, a trace of unbearability flashed in his eyes.
Most of these souls were incomplete, obviously they had been tortured for a long time, and their spiritual wisdom had long been blurred, leaving only instinctive pain and fear.
He raised his hand and waved it, and a soft and pure golden spiritual power was poured into the altar.
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