Zhang Fei's body quickly dissolved into black ash.
A light breeze scattered the ash across the ground, leaving behind only the acrid smell of blood and a heavy silence.
Qingyi didn't even bother to spare a second glance at what was left of him.
It was a pathetic death, honestly.
Zhang Fei had wet himself, so completely overwhelmed that he couldn't even react.
For all the brutality of it, the only thing on the spectators' minds was just how pointless that death had been.
He hadn't moved his Qi, hadn't tried to flee, hadn't tried to activate a single life-saving artifact.
He had simply writhed in agony and lost all control of himself.
Slowly, Qingyi shifted his gaze. Those beautiful, ice-cold purple eyes settled on the commander of the guard.
The commander shuddered from head to toe and lowered his head at once.
