The Cold and Aloof Palace Master's Daily Demon-Slaying Life

Chapter 127 A Panoramic View of Mountains and Rivers

On that upside-down continent, mountains and rivers are clearly visible.

Towering peaks pierce the clouds, winding rivers rush into the sea, vast plains are lush and verdant, and bustling cities are scattered like stars in the sky.

You can even see tiny figures of birds and beasts, wisps of smoke rising from chimneys, and bustling traffic.

It was a vibrant, complete projection of the world.

But at this moment, this world is upside down.

Like a reflection in a mirror.

It was as if someone had used immense power to tear it off from somewhere, flip it over, and then press it down on the Yifan Plain below, and on everyone present.

The upside-down continent blocked out the sunlight, and the shadows it cast quickly swallowed up the snowfields, distant mountains, and everything in sight.

The terrifying sense of oppression did not come from the weight, but from the crushing force of a higher, more essential "existence".

It was as if the "reality" of the entire world was tilting and collapsing towards that illusory continent.

Space began to groan under the strain, and tiny black cracks appeared and disappeared along the edge of the upside-down continent.

Below, on the Yifan Plain, the thick snow silently turned to dust, and the exposed permafrost, as if pressed down by an invisible hand, quickly subsided and cracked.

The cultivators watching from afar all felt their souls tremble, as if their very existence was about to be assimilated by the illusory continent.

"It is—it is True Lord Fu Shui."

A well-informed old monster, barely recovering from his shock, sensed the wildly turbulent yet uniquely ink-wash-like water-attribute spiritual power in the world and hissed, "It's the 'Splendid Landscape Painting' by True Lord Fu Shui. Fu Shui's position manifested, using the painting as a guide, borrowing a wisp of projection from the old earth to suppress the entire world."

Legend has it that True Lord Fu Shui once drew all the mountains and rivers of the entire Old Earth Continent on spirit talisman paper, forming a "Beautiful Landscape Picture". With this picture as a guide, True Lord Fu Shui was able to borrow a trace of the Old Earth Continent's projection.

Such methods.

This is no ordinary battle of wits.

This is a true transformation of the world, a crushing victory achieved with the power of a single entity.

When True Lord Fu Shui made his move, it was with such a devastating and merciless supreme killing move.

The target was clearly not the Purple Mansion cultivators below who were like ants, but the dark figure in the air.

Zuo Qingqiu.

Is he seeking justice for the death of his disciple, Li Baitian? Or does he have other motives?

No one knows.

Everyone, including Qingwei Zhenren and Leihuang Zhenren, was as insignificant and powerless as a small boat in a raging sea under the terrifying pressure of the inverted continent projection.

They desperately channeled their magic power and summoned all their protective magical treasures to barely stabilize themselves and avoid being torn apart by the invisible force of "being crushed".

But they were all pale-faced, clearly not feeling well.

When the True Lord is enraged, heaven and earth are overturned.

This is not even a contest on the same level.

Their chance to even watch the game is in jeopardy.

The inverted projection of the continent slowly descended, its speed seemingly slow, yet carrying a sense of inescapable and irresistible destiny.

The shadows enveloped the sky above Zuo Qingqiu, making her appear incredibly small.

Zuo Qingqiu raised her head and looked at the terrifying phantom that covered the sky and carried the weight of the world. Her beautiful face still showed no panic.

His dark Taoist robe fluttered in the increasingly strong wind, and his black hair flew wildly.

She didn't even take out any magical artifacts; she simply stood there quietly, as if admiring this rare "spectacle."

Until the edge of the illusory continent touched the hundred-foot-high sky above her head, the resulting spatial collapse caused even the purplish-black lightning halo behind her to ripple slightly—

She finally moved.

There was no earth-shattering outburst of momentum, no thunderous roar.

She simply raised her right hand slightly.

Her five fingers were slender and fair, as if carved from jade.

Facing the overwhelming, boundless, upside-down phantom of the continent.

then.

A half-hearted grasp.

Hanmo Mountain Range, Qingping Peak.

At the sunny summit, a few simple bamboo and wooden houses are built against the mountain, with icicles hanging from the eaves, reflecting a cool, faint light in the thin winter sunlight.

A clearing was cleared in the small courtyard in front of the house, revealing the bluestone slabs that had been soaked in snowmelt and turned a deep color.

Inside one of the rooms, a roaring fire extinguished the winter chill.

Su Hongxiu sat on a bamboo couch by the window, with a thick goose down mattress under her.

She wore a classic pink and white ruqun (a type of traditional Chinese dress) with a high waist, the hem of which was embroidered with delicate peach blossom patterns in silver thread, which shimmered faintly in the firelight.

She had a slender and graceful figure, fair and snow-white skin, and a delicate and flawless oval face with crescent-shaped eyebrows, a straight and elegant nose, and cherry-red lips that were naturally rosy. She exuded a charming and alluring style.

Her long, smooth, pink hair with a faint pearlescent sheen was casually draped over her shoulders. On either side of her head, two cute, fluffy fox ears were trembling slightly unconsciously with the movements of her hands, making them appear exceptionally lively.

Behind her, beneath her skirt, her large, fluffy, soft, pink tail swayed leisurely from side to side, revealing her calm yet expectant mood.

She held two slender bamboo needles in her hands, intently knitting a small, pale yellow sweater.

The stitches used were common plain stitches, not complicated, but her movements were somewhat clumsy. She would stop from time to time, furrow her brows, and refer to an old book with simple patterns drawn on it, or carefully unravel the parts she had knitted incorrectly and start over.

Her pink fox ears would droop occasionally as she was confused, only to stand up again as she came to her senses.

On the small table beside the bamboo couch, there were several pieces of equally soft and warm fabric, each a different color. She had been collecting them slowly over the past few days, preparing to make several more close-fitting clothes for the unborn little life.

The cold wind outside occasionally slipped through the gaps in the bamboo blinds, bringing with it the crisp scent of snow.

The fireplace crackled and popped inside, creating a warm and cozy atmosphere. The only sounds were the soft clinking of bamboo needles and her occasional low humming of lullabies.

This is a tranquil, warm scene, full of everyday life and maternal tenderness, which is incongruous with the otherworldly ink painting style of the Hanmo Mountains, yet strangely harmonious.

It was as if this ink-wash landscape had specially carved out a warm and authentic corner for her.

After finishing a row of embroidery, Su Hong held the small sweater up to her eyes, examined it carefully against the window light, and unconsciously smiled, revealing a pure and satisfied expression.

She stretched out her fingers and gently stroked the soft, delicate fabric, imagining how adorable a fair-skinned little dumpling would look wearing it soon.

Does she resemble her father more, with sharp eyebrows and bright eyes, exuding a heroic spirit? Or does she resemble herself more, cute and lively?

As she thought about it, two faint blushes appeared on her face, like peach blossoms in the snow.

Its large pink tail swayed more happily, brushing against the edge of the bamboo couch.

Just then—

Without any warning.

Su Hongxiu's fingers, which were stroking the sweater, suddenly trembled, and the bamboo needle fell to the bamboo couch with a "thud".

"Ah—" she cried out softly, her other hand instantly clutching her chest.

It wasn't an external injury, nor was it an illness. It was a chilling, piercing pain that suddenly exploded from the deepest part of the soul.

It was as if the sharpest ice pick had mercilessly pierced her heart, instantly draining away all her warmth and strength.