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Of the two men, one stayed stubbornly silent, while the other just groaned and whimpered. Neither would speak.
Jiao Yu leaned in and sniffed, then walked over to the one with the dislocated shoulder before saying, “This one has peed his pants.”
The soldiers burst into laughter. The man’s face went from pale to a sickly bluish color as he felt humiliated, terrified, and trapped.
This was probably the lowest moment of his life.
He Lingchuan walked up to the same captive and patted him on the injured shoulder—
“Aaagh!” The man howled, jerking his head up in pain, only to meet the mirror that He Lingchuan had already raised.
“Look!”
He tried to avert his eyes, but it was too late. His gaze fell on the mirror’s surface out of sheer reflex, and at first, he did not notice anything strange.
Not until the reflection inside the mirror gave him a faint, knowing smile.
The sorghum stalks blocked the slanting sunlight. Everyone stood in the shadow. At that moment, a thin wisp of white smoke was drawn from the captive’s mouth and sucked straight into the mirror.
The man’s eyes went dull at once.
He was injured, his will was weak, and he was far easier for foreign evil to take advantage of than his companion.
He Lingchuan...
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