Drakion stood at the end of the bridge, a single tear trailing down his face. Such a peaceful, lovely, and sweet city… reduced to this. He felt the sorrow swell within him, but this time, it wasn't amplified or twisted by any outside force. This was his true feeling.
Unbeknownst to Drakion, an uproar had ignited once more—this time, concerning the bridge. The moment he stepped onto it, all eyes had locked on him. He walked calmly, steadily, slowly—without a single pause or sign of strain.
He crossed the bridge without breaking a sweat.
This stunned the crowd—it was the second time Drakion had crossed the bridge with such ease. Whispers surged. Some cultivators, desperate and envious, brandished draconic relics and rushed after him, hoping to mimic his feat.
But the next moment—a crushing, unknown pressure fell upon them like divine judgment. Screams rang out. Flesh was torn apart.
Over fifty lives were reduced to meat paste in an instant.
After that, no one dared to try again.
