"I'm not injured, and if you insist on staying in this city, don't blame me for being impolite," Sandy Wexler said, his gaze deep and icy. A powerful aura surged out of him. This was the aura of a Quasi-Saint Seat. The sheer pressure was almost too much for his dantian to bear, but he managed to hold on.
Yet, the three sect leaders were not intimidated. Instead, they smirked, "Is that so? Stop pretending. Why don't we have a contest? If you still have your strength, we'll leave immediately without a word. Otherwise, don't blame us for helping manage the city."
"You..." Sandy Wexler spat blood out of anger, but there was nothing he could do in face of their audacity. Moreover, his loss of cultivation was a hard fact. Even if he could bluff them for a while, could he keep it up for a year?
