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Rustle, rustle, rustle.
A gentle breeze blew, carrying the stench of blood into the air. Once you grew accustomed to something, it soon became routine. In the past, after killing someone, Lin Zheyu could not help but tremble, and at night he would be haunted by nightmares until dawn. Yet now, after taking the lives of twenty people in one go, he merely let out a faint sigh, lamenting that human life was as insignificant as grass. His heart remained calm, without much disturbance.
He turned to look at Xing Jinglong. The man was tall and strong, and since some of Lin Zheyu’s full-powered strike had just been diverted by Qiao Quan, he had survived.
Lin Zheyu walked to Xing Jinglong's side, crouched down, and asked lightly, "Can you still speak?"
"Y-you… who… are you? N-no… it can't… be…"
Xing Jinglong's eyes grew vacant. His words were broken and slurred, and death...
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