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"Chou Long's" stealth was not as obvious as Yuwen Changtai's. His figure flowed rapidly like ink spilled across a wall, his toes making no sound as they stepped over the moss, choosing to move close against the cold stone wall at the building's outermost edge.
His aura had been restrained until it was almost nothing.
That excessive distance kept him in the blind spot at the edge of the battlefield experts' senses, like a pebble sunk to the deepest layer of water, silently avoiding the vast net of perception spread out layer by layer.
It kept Ma Zhibin and Lian Changzhi in the first group, and Yang Jingxue in the second, from sensing him.
The northeast corner of the northeast attic—naturally, the very edge.
The figure in the shadows had already lain dormant there for some time.
"Chou Long's" gaze was like an ice-cold snake's tongue, watching the Soul Sages fall into a disadvantage, watching the Soul Sages fall into a disadvantage, watching the battle-halberd Soul Sage be surrounded and beaten to death.
Utterly unmoved!
He could see the vague outline of a figure behind the railing of the distant attic. Chen Xiaojun's figure had remained standing there steadily all along.
At first, he had still expected that young man to throw himself into the battle as impatiently as he had in the past, and had even secretly planned to launch a fatal ambush the instant the other party rushed out of the attic.
The attic was a little too far from the end of the corridor where he was hiding, with boiling battle flames and chaotic Soul Power currents between them. That little distance turned a precise assassination into a fantasy.
He needed Chen Xiaojun to