In the sky, golden light and black light collided continuously, and the sound of golden swords clashing continued. The white light shrouding the city lord's mansion was split by the sharp sword light, and then it was wrapped in layers of black fog, as if there were vengeful spirits twisted and roaring in it.
The witch, who looked as old as a mummy, stood in a pool of smelly black water. Her face was hideous, her skinny fingers like dry firewood were clenched together, and she kept chanting witch scripts. Her voice was hoarse like the friction of sand and gravel, which made people's backs cold and their scalps numb.
Rowan Hawthorne leaped into the air, the golden sword was transformed from a scepter, the emperor's inheritance boiled in his blood, killing, destroying, like a ferocious beast that had been bound for tens of millions of years, howling wildly to break free from the chains that bound his body.
In the golden light, his extremely beautiful face was covered with golden scales, and his blood-red lips were curved into a cruel arc. He was the king who ruled the Alan continent, a benevolent yet tyrannical emperor.
As the blade passed, the black fog dissipated with a piercing whistle, and the black pool under the witch's feet boiled again, turning a dark red like blood. She chanted the witch's words, but the black blood no longer obeyed her. In an instant, human figures stood up one after another, roaring and opening their mouths, and pounced on the witch. They were the wronged souls who died at the witch's hands.
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