Atop a low hill surrounded by the market town.
The Colorful Fierce Tiger landed heavily with a Blood Cultivator clenched in its jaws. This was the last one within dozens of miles. The strong bloody scent of Blood Cultivators made them easy to identify; using its nose, it easily sniffed out the ones hiding away, though it still had to be careful not to kill them.
It tossed the wailing low-level Blood Cultivator into the pile of his companions, trying its best to make them hurt enough to regret it.
All the ordinary people nearby had already fled. Some had even left the market town with their families, carrying loads on their shoulders and in their hands. What pained Fat Tiger was that even the butcher had run away.
It licked its lips and squatted there, quietly waiting for the Blood Cultivators to regret their actions.
How long had the boss said they needed to regret it for?
Should it let them scream for another incense stick's time? Or an hour? Or did any amount of time work?
As Fat Tiger stood there in confusion, it caught sight of a particularly strong-willed Blood Cultivator glaring viciously at it from the corner of its eye. The man neither cried nor howled. Though all four limbs had been broken and pain had soaked his clothes through with sweat, he did not make a sound. Very good—he had courage, he had backbone. Since he refused to cooperate, there was no need to keep him around as an eyesore.
It raised a paw. Its broad fan-like tiger paw gently helped him find release, allowing his blood to flow into the formation.
That sensation reminded Fat Tiger of running free through the mountains and forests, where the ground was covered in berries beloved by herbivores.