Xu Piao wanted to step back, but even turning his head now tugged at the gash across his chest and abdomen, causing unbearable pain. His feet could not move at all. That despairing sensation of his body melting and turning viscous seemed to spread from the top of his head all the way down to the deck. He was like a wax figure under scorching heat, his once-proud, powerful muscles gradually sagging into softness.
The blazing spiritual pressure of Sacred Space felt like countless red-hot iron needles. Beyond the stabbing pain, it gave him the horrifyingly real sensation of Grease seeping from every inch of his body.
How had someone like this—such a terrifying fiend—never become known in the West Suburbs over the past several decades?
Xu Piao's eyelids twitched and his body shook, but none of those reactions could interfere with Dong Fan's steady approach. Every movement of his limbs was utterly meaningless struggle.
As Dong Fan drew close enough to seemingly reach out and seize his throat, something in Xu Piao's mind snapped. He could no longer think deeply and shouted:
"Stop! Your old mother is in my hands!"
Dong Fan really stopped.
Xu Piao did not dare waste the opportunity and hurriedly continued, "You went to the camp to look for her, didn't you? But you didn't find her, because she's in my hands..."
He had originally wanted to add some gestures to bolster his momentum, but his arms were stiff and sluggish. He could not do anything.
Dong Fan stared at Xu Piao. Then he opened his mouth. Within that dimly reddish mouth, his stark white teeth parted. It was as though he had not had water in a very long time, as though there was no moisture left in his throat. His voice was low