The sharp whistling of the palm wind tearing through the air abruptly ceased.
Qin Lie slowly withdrew his stance, and the pale golden micro-glow flowing beneath the skin of his right palm faded away like a receding tide.
Before him, the upper half of a withered tree trunk—as thick as a bowl—now bore a distinct, inch-deep palm print at its very center. The wood fibers around the edges had been ruthlessly crushed into powder, and a faint, charred scent mingled with the chill of the early morning.
Chapter 33