Fu Qian held a feather in his hand that was only the size of a fingertip, much more miniature in comparison to the circle of mirrors around him.
Yet it unmistakably felt like the same kind of thing.
"How can this be here?"
At this moment, Brother Overcoat, seeing the feather Fu Qian had picked up, also seemed quite surprised.
"There's clearly no mirror or anything of the sort."
"Indeed."
Fu Qian casually agreed while closely examining Brother Overcoat's head.
The left side of the other's face, having been eroded by the black fog just before, now looked withered like tree bark.
Soon, perhaps feeling a bit itchy, Brother Overcoat scratched his face, leaving behind a slight wound.
And the next moment, a grey feather emerged slowly but steadfastly from the wound.
The feather didn't stay attached to the face; rather, it detached as if hastened by ripeness, and within a few seconds, it wavered down to the ground.
