632: Chapter 632 Under the Palm Print

The Feather Clan Woman collapsed onto the cracked earth, her wings spread out limply—like the last two withered leaves clinging to a branch in late autumn, refusing to fall.

This pair of wings, which once flowed with a luster like moonlight, was now trembling violently.

Every single feather was screaming the same language: shattered.

Tears slid silently down her dust-covered cheeks, washing out two pale tear tracks that fell into the cracks at the edge of the palm print.

Her lips moved slightly, her voice as faint as a mosquito's buzz, unsure if she was begging for mercy or chanting that ancient Requiem of the Feather Clan—a ballad legendary for being able to let the Soul rest in peace and allow pride to be preserved.

But at this moment, even the scriptures were trembling.

Not far away, the Lion-headed Powerhouse had already revealed his true form.

A hundred-zhang golden lion roared at the sky, its Demonic Qi erupting into the heavens like a volcanic explosion!

Its golden fur stood on end, every strand burning with unyielding flames of rage.

Yet, in front of this slowly descending giant golden palm, this hundred-zhang demonic body that once made mountains tremble looked just like a kitten pinned under a towering mountain.

Its roar, which had shaken the heavens and the earth, quickly withered into an unwilling whimper deep in its throat.

The Vajra Monk pressed his palms together, sweat rolling down his forehead. Buddha light exploded from within his body, grander than any time before!

The golden light condensed into a massive " 卍" character, rotating as it rose into the sky, desperately trying to support that slow yet unstoppable giant palm.

His kasaya danced wildly in the energy storm, he gritted his teeth until they cracked, and the veins on his temples bulged—this was the most devout and most desperate lift of his entire life.

The black fog around the demonic Cultivator surged to the extreme, the ink-thick darkness expanding crazily, transforming into a bottomless abyssal vortex.

Thousands of ghosts shrieked within it, attempting to devour all light, to devour that golden hand.

Wherever the black fog passed, even light twisted and vanished, as if the world had been torn open with a wound leading to nothingness.

Then—the giant palm descended.

It was cruelly slow. Slow enough that every witness had enough time to clearly see how they were being crushed.

First was the sword.

That ancient sword which had accompanied the Sword Tiger Clan Prodigy for sixty years, its blade engraved with the clan's oldest totems, had witnessed every one of his insights into the Dao and every one of his Breakthroughs.

The moment the giant palm touched it, the sword let out a mournful cry—not the sharp sound of metal breaking, but a long, sorrowful wail resembling a life's final sigh.

Then, it shattered.

It did not break into two pieces, but transformed into thousands of tiny, fragmented points of light, like fireflies scattered by the wind on a summer night, dissipating completely into the air before hitting the ground.

The Sword Tiger Clan Prodigy watched helplessly, feeling his heart shatter along with those points of light.

It was not grief, not heartache—it was a deeper, more fundamental collapse: as if the world he had built over sixty years was merely a sandcastle built upon this sword.

The moment the sword shattered, his sixty years of Sword Cultivator cultivation, his sixty years of bitter training, his sixty years of pride and self-confidence—all of it, like that sword, shattered into powder, scattered by the wind, not even deigning to leave a single trace behind.

He opened his mouth, wanting to shout something, but could not make a sound.

Only two lines of scalding liquid slid down his cheeks—it was then he realized that even a Sword Cultivator could cry.

Next were the wings.

The Feather Clan Woman's wings were like the last two withered leaves on a late autumn branch, trembling gently in the wind—and then they fell off her back.

There was no sound of flesh tearing, no sharp sound of bones breaking, only a very light, very soft "hiss," as if fate had played a careless joke on her.

Before this pair of wings hit the ground, they began to turn into light feathers, drifting away one by one.

She did not scream, did not wail—she just watched quietly, her eyes as hollow as two ancient wells that had been dry for ten thousand years.

The wings were her last pride as a member of the Feather Clan, an existence that had accompanied her since she was an egg.

She had once used them to fly over the sea of clouds, to touch the stars, and had once believed there was no height in this world they could not reach.

At this moment, this pride was crushed in a casual, understated manner. It did not even deign to give her a heroic end.

She suddenly felt that all her past flights were nothing more than a moth flapping about inside a glass jar.

Utterly ridiculous.

The golden lion's roar turned into a whimper.

The earth-shaking declaration of a king quickly regressed into the whimper of a cub searching for its mother.

Its hundred-zhang body curled up under the giant palm, every strand of golden fur losing its luster.

The Buddha light dimmed.

The massive " 卍" character flickered like a candle in the wind, finally shattering into countless points of light, falling like golden snow onto the monk's desperate face.

The black fog dissipated.

The abyss was filled and purified by the pure golden light.

The demonic Cultivator screamed, watching the darkness he relied on for survival disappear like a receding tide, his face exposed to the light and pale as paper.

Then—Boom!!!

That was not a sound. That was the wail of the world itself.

The earth, like a giant drum struck by a heavy hammer, trembled violently, the ground exploding with countless bottomless wounds—as if this planet was also curling up in pain under this palm.

The shockwave swept crazily in all directions with the giant palm's landing point as the center; wherever the golden waves of Qi passed, trees were uprooted, and century-old woods were thrown into the sky like straw.

Mountain rocks cracked, and boulders several zhang high tumbled and shattered in the air waves.

Dust covered the sky and blocked the sun; within a hundred li, the heavens and the earth lost their color.

The smoke and dust rose for a long time.

Long enough that the people within the palm print forgot time, forgot how to breathe, forgot the pain, and just stared blankly at this slowly settling Chaos.

Finally, the wind came.

Little by little, blowing away the dust.

On the ground was a palm print.

Dozens of zhang deep, as if the gods had pressed an eternal mark here.

The five-finger outline, covering a radius of several hundred zhang, was distinct, and every palm line was clearly visible—this was the texture of power, the manifestation of rules, an order that the mortal world could not understand.

The soil at the edge of the palm print had been melted by high temperatures into a glass-like substance, flickering with cold and eerie light under the gradually recovering light.

In the very center of the palm print—

A dozen or so Cultivators lay scattered about, like dolls casually discarded by a child.

No one had died.

Not even one person's fire of life had truly been extinguished.

But everyone's body was covered in fine cracks—from forehead to fingertips, from chest to spine, like a precious piece of porcelain that had been smashed and then barely glued back together by some unknowable power.

Beneath the cracks, one could vaguely see slowly circulating energy: their cultivation was still there, not crippled; their lives were still there, not severed.

But that was because Luo Xiaojiu had held back.

Everyone knew this clearly. And this realization was more fatal than the physical pain.

She hadn't even used her full strength—no, she might not have even used one-tenth of her power.

When this giant palm fell, everyone clearly felt the deliberate sense of measure in that power: it had precisely calculated each person's limit of endurance, just enough to completely crush their pride, beliefs, and dignity, yet just enough not to truly take their lives.

This terrifyingly precise control of force was more desperate than the giant palm itself.

Because this meant—crushing them, to her, did not even require being serious.

It required no calculation, no weighing of options.

Just like humans do not think about how to avoid ants under their feet when walking, just like one does not calculate the flow of air when breathing.

This was a kind of indifference that was condescending to the bone. A kind of suffocating composure stemming from an essential disparity.

Luo Xiaojiu slowly withdrew her right hand and stood with her hands behind her back.

Her dress fluttered slightly in the gradually calming wind, unstained by even a speck of dust—as if that strike just now, which had destroyed a hundred li, was to her nothing more than a casual flick of her sleeve.

She looked down at the immobile Cultivators in the palm print, the corners of her mouth slightly upturned.

This was not the smile of a victor, but an arc that was almost compassionate, carrying a faint weariness.

The smoke and dust finally settled completely.

The wilderness fell into a deathly silence.

Even the sound of the wind was cautious, not daring to break this stillness that had been intimidated by power.

Then, she spoke.

Her voice was not loud.

Gentle, calm, even carrying a trace of a young girl's clarity.

But in this deathly silence, every word was as clear as a mark carved into stone with a knife, deeply branded into the depths of the Soul of everyone who heard it:

"As for me, my temper isn't very good."

She paused, her gaze slowly sweeping over every broken face in the palm print.