Watching the miserable state of Old Tomb Digger, Hu the Eighth, and Mo Xiao, Wu the Old Ghost's hands trembled slightly from a distance. He secretly wiped away a bead of cold sweat, thankful for his own cleverness.
Thank goodness he chose to trust Mo Qi at the last minute and hadn't just foolishly stayed put.
Otherwise, he would have been right there with them, foaming at the mouth and suffering a mental breakdown.
"How was my poem? Come now, give me your appraisal."
The Pig Emperor seemed extremely pleased with its poem and looked expectantly at Old Tomb Digger and the other two.
Old Tomb Digger and the other two lay on the ground, looking half-dead. Their bodies twitched intermittently, as if they had been electrocuted.
'Appraisal?'
'What the actual fuck!'
'You call that damn thing a poem?'
'Okay, let's put that aside for a moment and talk about your voice!'
'Was your throat consecrated by an Evil Divine Being or something?'
