Curse Of Being A Cultivator

Everyone ran out to look at the skies as the red liquid fell. Whomever it touched felt their skins crawl as though it was tainted and their bodies defiled by an ominous presence. Neisha opened her palm just the smell of the liquid was more nauseating than that of blood. It was foul, cold and every drop more putrid than the next while the purple inscription in the skies rotated and fueled its downpour.

The six sect heads appeared in the skies, so too did the grand elder. She had returned to her previous post as a guardian who watched from the shadows and allowed Salber to take the helm. 

There was no time to do the usual greeting; the inscriptions meant one thing: a genocide was about to unfold. All within the Fu Province and other territories' lives were now at stake. From mortal to cultivator, no one would be spared.

"Get in contact with your sects immediately!" The Grand Elder firmly stated.