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How could someone who died inside a phantom or illusion leave behind the smell of blood?
Fushan Yue did not even need to finish his warning. He Lingchuan had already slid forward in a single swift step, and there it was.
One of the Stone Gate Merchant Caravan hands had had his throat slit. Another had been stabbed straight through the chest. The short, cut-off scream they had heard was the second man’s final sound.
The killers were two men from the Chiyan party.
While the victims were still bleeding, while their last breath had not yet fully scattered, the two Chiyan men pressed a bead into each wound.
The caravan hands’ bodies visibly caved in, shrinking before the naked eye like sacks suddenly emptied of grain, or pickled greens wrung dry until nothing remained but limp husk.
There might have been a phantom city layered over the ruins, but in truth, this was still barren wilderness, meaning that there was only sparse brush, thin grass, and nowhere to hide. The moment He Lingchuan saw them committing murder, they saw him too.
Two kills or four, either way, it made two pairs. They did not even need to exchange a word. With blood-smeared weapons in hand, they charged him.
He Lingchuan flicked his wrist and fired a sleeve arrow at the man on the right, then slammed himself toward the left attacker.
The other man came in ferociously, certain that He Lingchuan had delivered himself...
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