That voice?
Cao Feiyu's delicate body shuddered violently, and she froze where she stood. The hand gripping her longsword trembled uncontrollably, and the sword tip struck the cold stone floor with a light ring.
She abruptly raised her head and stared at the cave entrance shrouded in dense mist, her pupils filled with utter disbelief—and a faint hope so weak it was almost a wish she herself had never noticed.
It was Junior Brother Chen's voice.
Was it an auditory hallucination before death? Or an illusion born of grave injuries and a turbulent mind?
Shi Pojun, Liu Yanqing, and Chang Guwu—three Great Cang Realm Mid-stage cultivators—had joined forces in such a meticulously arranged killing trap. How could Chen Fei... how could he possibly have escaped?
The next instant, the thick gray mist at the entrance, dense enough to seem impossible to disperse, was gently brushed aside by an invisible hand and silently flowed to either side.
A tall, upright figure emerged unhurriedly from the shifting haze, his steps calm as he entered the dimly lit cave.
His black fitted clothes were spotless, as though he had never fought at all. His expression was tranquil, a faint smile lingering at the corner of his lips. His eyes were clear and profound as a deep pool, reflecting the faint daylight filtering in from outside.
He stood there with a steady, long, peaceful aura utterly at odds with this perilous, deathly, oppressive place. Yet strangely, he brought an indescribable sense of calm.
Cao Feiyu went completely still, staring without blinking at the familiar face by the entrance, at the gentle smile upon it, as though trying to find even the slightest trace of disguise.
Faced with such a certain-death trap, Cao Feiyu asked herself whether she could have survived. Other than mutual destruction,