The white-robed elder waved his hand, and the restriction above the jade pool slowly dissipated. The milky white spiritual liquid rippled on its surface, radiating an even richer glow.
The light was gentle and gentle, yet carried an indescribable sense of weight, as if the entire world was within it.
Chen Ping’s soul slowly drifted toward the jade pool. He flew slowly, the golden light of the Da Luo Golden Scripture swirling around him, barely blocking out the mist.
With every inch forward, he felt an invisible pressure squeezing his soul, as if countless hands were pulling him apart, trying to tear him apart.
Guiyuanzi’s hand rested on the sword hilt, not daring to speak or move, even instinctively letting his breathing lighten.
His eyes were fixed on the purple soul, not daring to blink.
Qingqiu stood to the side, dressed in white as snow, his long hair as black as ink, and his amber eyes reflected a swirling purple light.
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