The sharp blade in his hand glinted with a bone-chilling cold light, as dazzling as ghostly flames in the dim light, like the scythe wielded by Death God, exuding a fearsome deadly aura, foretelling an impending bloody massacre.
The eyes of these masked men were as fierce as wolves, rushing towards Wu Zhong without hesitation, murderous intent gleaming in their eyes, clearly intending to launch a deadly strike against him. In an instant, the atmosphere in the once-peaceful sub-branch suddenly turned tense and oppressive, a thrilling blood battle was about to erupt.
Wu Zhong's heart jolted violently, like a clap of thunder exploding in his heart.
After years of wandering the Jianghu, having weathered countless storms, the wealth of experience he accumulated allowed him to calm down instantly in this moment of crisis.
