Jin Bao's expression was quite ugly at this moment.
Previously, Zhang Xiaoman had used real extraordinary means to prove the truthfulness of his words to him.
In his view, all of this was undoubtedly just as the master had said, the work of something called the Blood Butterfly.
Now, hearing the person in front of him seriously concocting a story about restless ghosts, a surge of nameless anger arose in his heart.
Although I, Su Fu, have treated you with respect, this does not mean you can recklessly make up stories, thinking I, Su Fu, am a fool?
Thinking of this, even with his temperament, his face couldn't help but turn cold as he said in a deep voice:
