The two spoke in whispers.
Zhao Wumian stood by, his eyes slightly closed, his spiritual sense spread out, vigilant for any threats that might appear around them.
Although in such a world, it was unlikely anything could pose a threat to them.
But it never hurts to be cautious.
Lin Xin sat in meditation, his body temperature quickly rising.
At this moment, his entire focus was on the strand of breath he had separated out.
Following that strand of breath, his consciousness slowly delved deeper.
The breath seemed like a colorless veil, within which lay many fine threads, woven into a net, stretched and then twisting, tumbling.
It became the strand of warm breath that had been pulled out.
Lin Xin's consciousness ventured deeper, becoming ever more microscopic in observation.
He concentrated his spirit, looking at one of those fine threads.
The tiny silver-white viscous liquid inside flowed like blood vessels, entangled and intertwined on the thread.
