A rough, hoarse male voice was saying something, his tone greasy, broken now and then by a few lewd chuckles, with another voice mixed in—sharp and furious, like a cat with all its fur standing on end.
Don't touch me! Get the hell away from me!
General Deng, don't be so angry.
We're all comrades. What's wrong with getting a little close?
When Nezha reached the corner of the tent, he saw a sight that made his scalp crawl.
A short man in an earth-yellow Daoist robe, small but wiry, was chasing after Deng Chanyu's backside.
Deng Chanyu had not even had time to put on her silver armor. She wore only an undergarment, her wet hair plastered to her face, a short blade clenched in her hand. Her face was flushed red, her chest rising and falling violently; clearly, she had just run out from the bathing area.
That short man was called Tu Xingsun, a disciple of Feiyun Cave of Jialong Mountain. He had only joined Xiqi half a month ago.
Nezha had met him a few times, and every time, he felt the man spoke with a slick, oily tongue and was no decent person.
Tsk, tsk, tsk, General Deng, your skin really is smooth—
Tu Xingsun ducked down, and his whole body suddenly vanished into the ground.
The next second, a hand emerged from the earth beneath Deng Chanyu's feet and groped her calf.
Deng Chanyu screamed and swung her blade downward.
Tu Xingsun had already burrowed away. He drilled out of the ground three feet off, wearing the kind of smile that made Nezha sick.
Hahahaha, didn't get to touch—
Tu Xingsun!
Deng Chanyu gnashed her teeth, the short blade clenched in her hand, her knuckles white, her whole body trembling.
Touch me again and