Carrying his doubts and the three little clay figurines, Zhao Han returned to Green Robe Old Ancestor's side.
The three children accepted the silver with delight, then looked at Zhao Han and Green Robe Old Ancestor with puzzled expressions.
They wondered when these two outsiders had arrived. They hadn't made a sound at all.
Green Robe Old Ancestor hadn't been watching the statue. Instead, he looked at Zhao Han as he approached with a strange expression.
"Disciple, I'm starting to wonder how you ever managed to cultivate to the Spirit Condensing Realm."
"You're just too young, too kind, and too inexperienced."
"You should know that as a Martial Artist, you need a ruthless heart and a vicious hand. You have to be willing to cast everything aside and dare to do anything if you want to go farther, live longer, and grow stronger."
"I'll give you another chance to prove yourself. These three children don't need to remain before our eyes."
Zhao Han walked up to Green Robe Old Ancestor and stopped. His eyes were utterly calm as he looked at him.
Zhao Han considered himself a man who had killed countless people, with a fierce bloodlust. At least eight or ten thousand had died directly by his hand, and even more had died as an indirect result of his actions.
But those who had died directly by his hand had all been enemies with grudges against him, people he had no choice but to kill.
A small number had brought death upon themselves—for instance, those who knew they were no match for him but still rushed forward to die, or those killed by the shockwaves of his attacks.
He killed by principle. He wasn't a Demonic Head who indiscriminately slaughtered everyone he encountered, sparing neither the old nor the