The fire in Daqian Palace has not yet been extinguished, and Xuantianmen's sword has been placed on his neck.
The subjugated prince Li Zhao huddled in a mass grave, digging his fingernails into the rotten soil - he watched with his own eyes his father being torn into pieces by the foundation-building monks, and his mother being dragged into a tent by the Beidi barbarians.
Until the blood-stained bamboo slip suddenly appeared in front of his eyes: "Current technology: gunpowder formula, deducing the path for the next 30 years: steam engine → internal combustion engine → tank → star battleship."
"Simulated gunpowder blasting the Xuantianmen branch rudder."
"Ding! The foundation-building monks suffered 3 casualties, the people's support +200, and Xuantianmen's prestige -50%."
When the first roar overturned the cultivator's air-control sword, and when the flames of the machine gun tore apart the golden elixir old monster's protective light shield, Li Zhao wiped the blood on his face: "The Taoist robe of Xuantianmen should be exchanged for blood.
