The remaining warmth of the light of truth is still condensed on the fingertips, like a ball of stars that will not go out. Duan Xu was hanging over Wuxiang Island, the hem of his clothes was blown by the strong wind when the crack was closed, and the bitter smell left when Li Qianjue disappeared into ashes still remained in his nostrils - it was the smell mixed with the rotten gas of evil weapons and the essence and blood of monks, which made his temples twitch.
