When millions cheered for you, and you thought of the tens of millions more watching from behind their screens.
As a mortal, it was hard not to have your legs tremble.
But from this day onward, you were a witch.
You would not feel fear, terror, or trembling.
A spectacle like this would only make you more bloodthirsty, more exhilarated.
Jiang Han breathed in the air still carrying a faint scorched stench, as though she had caught the scent of blood.
This arena had not been cleaned especially thoroughly. After all, even more matches were being held at the same time; there was no need to provide an outstanding environment for a preliminary round. The smell of blood, burning, and rot made the blood in a witch's veins run hot.
Jiang Han reined in her emotions. Rather than looking at her opponent, she surveyed her surroundings and began to think.
Did this count as her first individual match?
If it did, what kind of attitude should she face it with?
Jiang Han looked toward Zhao Xinyan.
This witch was a typical example of one unable to restrain the bloodthirsty urges within her. This was also one of the defining traits of witches manufactured between the fifties and nineties. Witches produced in that era had received no training and lacked sufficient aptitude; it was perfectly normal for them to be unable to control the boiling witch blood in their bodies.
Jiang Han watched her quietly.
She appraised her opponent, wearing exactly the same expression her opponent wore while appraising her.
Both carried a faint trace of "disdain."
Perhaps in Zhao Xinyan's eyes, dealing with a witch whose only exceptional quality was her magic power, and who had no true mastery in any spell specialization, would be easier than dealing