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While storms raged above the mountains, deep beneath them, it was quiet.
Somewhere in the pocket world under the ninth mountain, a gaunt figure sat alone inside a grand hall shrouded in mist and alive with crackling lightning. His eyes were tightly shut, and his body faintly trembling. From time to time, arcs of lightning danced across his skin. Thin strands of lightning wove in and out of his body like flowing water, never stopping, never resting.
At his feet lay a chaotic pile of items—enchanted artifacts, enchanted treasures, talismans, puppets, sword orbs, ores, formation flags, and shards of shattered storage pouches. There was no clear order, no indication of what was doing what. It was impossible to tell what kind of cultivator could possess such a mishmash of belongings.
Only Luo Chen knew what he had endured during these past six months.
The day he summoned the storm had changed everything. He had never expected the magnitude of the lightning that descended to be so strong. The lightning-warding capabilities of the Wandering Eighteen-Formation Disc were utterly insufficient to discharge the full wrath of that heavenly lightning.
Watching Di Wanyun fall in an instant, he had no choice but to activate one final backup plan. In a desperate gamble, he directed the heavenly lightning to smash open the ancient gate, no longer concerned with the consequences or who might follow.
Fortunately, it had worked. In that brief window, Luo Chen had forced his way into the pocket world. Yet though he had narrowly survived, it had not come without a price. A...
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