Zhu Minglang looked at the maniac.
The maniac's hair was disheveled, his teeth sharp as a demon's, his skin cracked, and his body covered in blood that no one had bothered to clean.
Around his neck, he wore a very special kind of shackle, presumably a tool meant to suppress his quasi-god strength.
It was hard to imagine that someone of quasi-god level could end up like a mad dog. Truly, the path of cultivation is fraught with immense dangers—just one misstep can lead to irreversible disaster and demonic possession.
"A mere Sect woman dares to give us the runaround; she really must be tired of living!" said the man drinking wine.
"It's a pity about her pretty face, half of it bitten off by this mad dog," the man with the spotted face said. "It's difficult to lay hands on her now. We could have killed her and played with her for a few days instead of drinking this suffocating wine here."
