Sword's Chant tore through the prison Formation, sweeping swiftly towards both sides of the corridor.
The Qingyuan Sword, three feet and three inches long, had only half emerged when the man shrouded in a purple-black robe suddenly moved—or rather, his presence suddenly changed.
His elaborate robe fluttered with the fierce gusts of wind, and beneath the hood, one could faintly see a pair of eyes as deep and clear as the sea lighting up.
In an instant, the star-like radiance swirling around Him abruptly stalled, with a faint but discernible roar of thunder.
Feng Jiuxuan's eyes remained lowered, still as a deep pool.
In the unseen spaces, countless arched runes of a curse appeared, and from them, white chains shot out, firmly locking his sword-wielding wrist.
Layer upon layer, like tangled spider webs, they wrapped around his arm.
Feng Jiuxuan's hand that drew the sword remained steady, but the speed at which the sword left the sheath gradually slowed.