Song Qingshu frowned deeply. He recognized him even before Zhao Min did, but Xiao Feng no longer possessed his usual lofty spirit. Carried on someone's back, he looked utterly listless, clearly having suffered serious internal injuries.
What surprised Song Qingshu even more was that two familiar faces were with Xiao Feng. One wore a vermilion dress—it was A Zhu, whom he had not seen for years. Back at Yanziwu, it had been thanks to the Disguise Art she taught him that he had managed to deceive the world all these years.
The other girl, dressed in purple, was actually A'zi. Some time ago, news had come from the Golden Snake Camp that A'zi had taken the chance to escape. Song Qingshu had not thought much of it, since she carried little weight in his heart. But why was she now together with Xiao Feng and A Zhu? Was this the so-called force of plot correction?
The one carrying Xiao Feng was a burly man, tall and powerfully built. Unfortunately, he wore a black headscarf that concealed his appearance. Still, it was clear that his martial arts were extraordinary. Even with someone on his back, he moved as swiftly as if flying, while A Zhu and A'zi were having trouble keeping up.
Behind the group, a crowd was pursuing them from afar. Song Qingshu looked over, and his expression grew increasingly strange. They were all old acquaintances.
The leader was broad and imposing, dressed in a kasaya yet with a murderous look on his face. He was none other than Xuan Cheng, hailed as Shaolin's greatest in two hundred years. Another man had kind features and a full head of white hair and beard—it was Master Fangzheng.
Another had a gleaming bald head and an air of authority between his brows.