With the old "half a cup of tea to recover" incident fresh in mind, Young Master Feng Jiu naturally couldn't trust Xu Yi.
But that single "Brother Xu" had also exposed the conflict deep inside him.
It seemed Feng Jiu's psychological defenses against facing death had already crumbled. Xu Yi changed his expression again, staring at Feng Jiu with a sinister look. "Brother Jiu doesn't trust me, and naturally I don't trust you either. Do you really think that if I let you go, you'd let me enter the Netherfire Abyss unharmed to gather Fire Spirit Power?"
"Then what are we supposed to do!"
Feng Jiu blurted out.
The words had barely left his mouth when he regretted them, cursing himself for being so impatient.
"I don't know either. Think of something yourself, Brother Jiu."
Xu Yi folded his arms. "You have another half a cup of tea. If you can't give me peace of mind by then, I'll have to send you off to the Nine Hells. Oh, I almost forgot: the Demon Race has no souls. When your demon body dies, you're really dead."
"It's a shame. A gifted talent like you, with your renowned Demon Blood, will turn to dust in a single moment, sinking into eternal silence. What a pity. Tell me, Brother Jiu, after you die, you won't feel or hear a thing. You'll be like someone shut inside a dark, airless box for all eternity. What do you think that would be like?"
"Demon! You damned demon!"
Feng Jiu roared in his heart.
To Feng Jiu, the man standing before him was a true demon—a devil who toyed with people's minds.
He had already resigned himself to death, yet after all this torment, the resolve to die had long since faded.
Now the damned