The first thing Beifeng felt was confusion.
That fan was a powerful artifact—a treasure of such a high rank that only a core disciple should possess it.
Among the inner disciples, only Guo Tianhao, killed by Qingyi's own hands, had ever owned something so valuable.
Yet, despite the immense power concentrated within that artifact, a single touch had shattered it like a cheap mirror.
Then came the pain.
The air tore from his lungs in a single, violent blow. The dry crack of his ribs snapping echoed through the hall in rapid succession, his chest caving inward as though crushed to dust.
His body cut through the air toward the black walls of the enormous cultivation hall, sinking deep into the dark stone.
The impact resounded through the hall like thunder, cracking the surrounding surface into a web of fissures that stretched for meters, shards of dark rock raining down around him.
