The blade was like a blood-red torch; even a brush past it seared painfully.
If "Xi Yi" died, I'm afraid not even ashes would remain.
Li Yan tapped his foot on the ground, his body swaying past the old man's Ghost Head Sword. He prided himself on his steely resolve, but facing the old man's face smeared with chicken blood still brought a terrifying chill to his heart.
It was the innate fear of death that lived in every mortal being.
It was the savage and blood-soaked executions that had persisted through the thousand-year dynasty, unchanged.
Was Old Madam Deng's sword skill exquisite? Not necessarily, but the overwhelming stench of blood emanating from the old man stifled Li Yan from raising his fists.
This was an understanding far beyond the [Aura of Killing Intent]. How many had this old man killed in his lifetime—a hundred, if not more?
