Shan Zhi's plum blossom dart pouch suddenly unfolded, releasing twelve silver rays that drew ghostly arcs through the air.
The cultists clutching barrels of gunpowder hadn't yet approached when they were precisely pierced into their major acupoints, standing rigidly for a moment before collapsing heavily, black blood spilling from the corners of their mouths.
However, the red-clothed cultists showed no fear of death; more people surged out from the galleries surrounding the blood pool, the poison on their scimitars reflecting an eerie blue in the twilight.
