…………

Before the cave of the Old Man of the Underworld, two figures, like two burning black flames, surged with suppressed rage under the dark red light of the mineral.

They were a male and a female ghost cultivator, their faces aged and haggard, their ghostly aura surging like boiling ink.

His withered fingers clenched into fists, his nails digging deep into his palms, and dark red blood dripped from between his fingers onto the ground with a soft hissing sound.

The male cultivator’s voice was hoarse and rough, like sandpaper rubbing against a piece of iron: “Hand over my daughter! Hand over my daughter!”

His wife stood beside him, silently weeping, her deep blue eyes swirling with a mixture of despair and anger.

She didn’t roar like her husband, but her silence was heavier than any roar, like a giant blade pressing down silently.