"Leave?" Yuan Se chuckled as he stared at Yuan Gang, who had charged forward to cover the others' retreat. He wanted to ask him—could they still leave?
He continued forward unhurriedly, calm and composed, utterly ignoring Yuan Gang's charge.
In his eyes, these people were nothing but insignificant trash who could be killed with a casual wave of his hand. Their death throes were futile.
As for this fellow who did not fear death, he would tear off his mask and see whether he was that Demon Cult Holy Son.
If he was, Yuan Se would certainly ask what tricks he had been playing with Wu Chang, how his severed arm had come about, and whether he had not been rescued by Lü Wushuang.
"Yah!" Under his furious glare, Yuan Gang seemed to squeeze out a cry from every corner of his lungs, and it burst from his throat.
"Woooar—" He arrived, his blade swung out, cleaving the air. A thunderous tiger's roar rang through the passage.
Yuan Se flicked his wide sleeve, casually sending forth a surge of immense dharmic power.
"Woooar—" The tiger's roar that followed was far less imposing than the first, yet it was like muffled thunder brewing amid black clouds above the Ninth Heavens, as though a heaven-shaking bolt of lightning might flash down at any moment, tightening everyone's hearts.
Yuan Se's gaze flickered. He had to admit that this man's blade was very fast.
What surprised him was that, in the midst of drawing his blade, the man's movements seemed to grow smoother along with the blade's momentum.
It was like scraping across something rough. At first, the friction and resistance were great, making the movement seem stiff. But once the arm had swung fully open, though the resistance remained, the motion became fluid.