Chapter 156: Your Arrival is My Salvation
The chilling rumble voice drew the group’s attention, their eyes cutting through the dimness to where a shroud of ashen mist unraveled like a dying breath. From its dissipating veil emerged a spectral figure, indistinct yet hauntingly human.
Crimson threads, fine as vicious demon spider silk yet pulsing with malevolent intent, wove through the air from unseen voids, ensnaring him in a grotesque tapestry that bound his limbs and torso. The threads seemed alive, tightening with each faint stir of his breath, as though feeding on his waning essence.
Donovan Valdez’s muscle was taut with suspicion, his stance rigid as he scrutinized the figure. A sharp gasp from Zoe Wright at his side suddenly shattered the tense silence.
"S... Senior Brother Krogh Hanz?!"
All the others froze and stunned, their gazes snapping to Zoe in unison, confusion etched across their faces.
"Krogh Hanz?... !?"
Zoe nodded with fervent certainty, the tattooed female cultivator’s eyes wide with recognition and admiration. "Back to the time, I just joined the Holy Sect, I attended an open lecture at Dao Artifact Peak for the first time. That lecture was given by Senior Brother Hanz. So this was definitely his voice—it’s unmistakable. I’d always remembered his voice!"
Donovan’s eyes narrowed, glinting with guarded curiosity. He stepped forward respectfully, his voice low and deliberate. "If I may be so bold, are you truly Senior Brother Krogh Hanz standing before us?"
The figure remained still for a long moment, as if weighing the question. "Ten years," the man murmured, his voice a hollow echo, "and the Outer Sect teems with millions of disciples like fish in the universe sea. Yet someone there still remembers my name." Slowly, the figure lifted his head, and the mist that had veiled him dissolved completely, revealing a handsome face gaunt and severe.
The silhouette resolved into a male cultivator seated cross-legged on a weathered futon, his presence steeped in decay, as if time itself had leached the vitality from his frame. The young cultivator sat in the shadow, his posture rigid as a blade sheathed in stillness. His face was all sharp angles—high cheekbones cutting through the taut skin, a jawline like the edge of a cliff. Though his frame spoke of youth, his hair was an unnatural silver, strands like frost threading through the dark, as though time itself had brushed too heavily over him.
His eyes were closed, his breathing so faint it seemed he had become part of the futon beneath him. The man’s eyelids lifted—just a sliver.
And in that sliver, a glint.