As these words were spoken, Jian Wushuang quickly retreated.
The intensity of that killing intent was too overwhelming; he instinctively stepped back, but the crisis had already descended in the last moment.
A spout of blood erupted, blood gushing like a fountain.
Plop.
Jian Wushuang fell heavily to the ground and couldn't get up.
Even though the power wrapped around the attack seemed small, with just one glance, he was directly gravely injured.
But this was exactly what he wanted. If Xia Mang didn't scold or beat him, he might have been dragged out and slaughtered.
The face of a strong individual is crucial.
After killing the juniors of others, how could one expect a civilized conversation?
"This is just a small punishment for your crimes!" Xia Mang said, sipping tea.
Killing Jian Wushuang was a considerable trouble for him, but he couldn't let it go easily either.
