The night at Lin Zhong Lake was eerily quiet.
There was no wind, no insect song, and even the colossal lake not far from here seemed to have fallen under a silencing spell, becoming deathly silent.
Zheng Qing leaned against a thick banyan tree, gasping for breath heavily. His arm, propped against the trunk, involuntarily trembled, causing the aerial roots of the banyan tree to sway with his tremors.
Fighting was exceedingly exhausting.
He couldn't resist glancing at the Armour Horse tied to his leg. The runes drawn with cinnabar on the yellow paper hadn't all blackened yet; a small section still flashed a bright red color.
From the start until now, not even five minutes had passed, but Zheng Qing already felt like a dead dog.
