Great King Hanqi

Shen Hui said nothing.

He curled his index finger and flicked it lightly.

A thread-thin streak of Sharp Gold Qi shot from his fingertip, fine as a harp string and swift as lightning.

In a single flash, it swept across the man's waist.

The smile had not yet faded from the man's face when his body was neatly severed into two at the waist.

His upper body tilted, then slid to the ground together with the chair back.

The man stared wide-eyed, his mouth opening and closing as though he had yet to understand what had happened.

His upper half fell flat on its back. Both arms continued to flail, trying to push himself up, but finding nowhere to brace against.

Shen Hui rose to his feet, grabbed the man by his topknot, lifted his upper body, and slammed it down onto the Eight Immortals table.

The ceramic bowls on the table jumped from the impact, rolling to the edge before falling and shattering into several pieces.

The man finally came to his senses. His mouth gaped wide, horror flooding his face.

Shen Hui simply extended his right hand, his five fingers hooked like claws, and seized the man's neck. He twisted and pulled.

With a crisp crack, the man's head was forcibly torn off.

Yet though the head had left its body, its lips continued to move without pause, and its tongue still writhed inside its mouth. It was actually still speaking.

The voice squeezed out through the severed windpipe, hoarse and leaking air as it repeated the same sentence indistinctly:

"You... who are you?"

Shen Hui did not answer. Instead, he looked at the severed opening in the man's neck.

There was no ordinary human trachea or esophagus there, only a limp mass of something.

He reached out,