The remaining refugees looked at the corpses strewn across the ground, especially their leader's eyes, still wide open in death.
"Run... run!" someone shouted.
Several dozen people scattered like startled rabbits, scrambling and crawling into the woods by the roadside, not even bothering to take the four sacks of grain.
The caravan was just as silent.
Everyone stared at the figure standing there with his knife sheathed.
The guards who had clearly stated just moments ago that they would not stand up for Fang Yuan had gone deathly pale.
They unconsciously took half a step back, their palms drenched in cold sweat around their weapons.
Only now did they realize what terrifying strength and ruthless decisiveness Fang Yuan possessed—the Fang Yuan they had thought was merely a little stronger than average.
Chen Zhiyuan's throat was dry. He wanted to say something, yet he found himself unable to force out a single word.
The steward's gaze was complicated as his hand quietly moved toward his waist.
He discreetly signaled the servants to stay alert, though even he did not know whether they were guarding against the refugees possibly returning,
or against Fang Yuan, who had just bared his fangs.
A vicious man so decisive in killing, one who treated human lives like grass, made one's spine go cold merely by standing nearby.
Just then, Fang Yuan's gaze swept lightly over them and happened to fall on the steward's hand resting against his lower back.
That gaze was calm and still, yet the steward felt a chill at his neck and even instinctively moved his hand slightly away from his waist.
Fang Yuan's gaze did not linger. As though it had merely been a casual glance, it shifted away.
The steward no longer dared make any unnecessary movements. He did not even