Sword light flashed by, and the sharp blade slashed straight at Qin Feng's neck.
Qin Feng was still standing far away, not dodging at all.
A stubborn clang rang out—the blade actually sounded like it was scraping stone, making an ear-piercing noise.
The thugs raised their eyebrows, thinking Qin Feng would be spattered with blood any second now.
Who could've guessed, he was still standing there just fine, even lighting up a cigarette and holding it in his mouth, shaking his head, "Nope, still too weak!"
Heizi's heart was thumping like crazy, his whole body shaking in shock.
Pan Jian's brows were knit tight, and he pulled out a pistol from his jacket, cursing, "Fuck your mother, you've milked this act long enough!"
He gritted his teeth, and with a flick of his finger—bang!—he pulled the trigger. The bullet shot out from the barrel, sparks flying in the night.
The thugs clenched their teeth; they never thought Pan Jian would really fire. And the gun's actually real, too.
