He was a robustly built fat man.
His eyebrows were thick and faint, his eyes very small, but imbued with profound depths.
Hanging from his left and right cheeks were two chunks of flesh, making his speech sound laborious.
Or rather, his speech always seemed to pack a punch.
"Persuading an enraged Fishman back to the lake is not an easy task," the corpulent wizard stated, pulling out a clean handkerchief from his pocket. He delicately wiped his palms and the crevices of his fingers, his tone insouciant.
Zheng Qing remained seated on the ground, not yet rising to his feet.
The effects of 'I'm a Dark Yellow Horse' had not yet completely receded; he still felt as if he had just run a marathon, sluggish all over.
So he lay there, silently observing this plump wizard while stealthily reaching into his grey cloth bag, carefully rummaging through it.
