"Ah! Ugh!"
Fang Heling let out a meaningless, hoarse wail. He didn't even know what he was crying out. He simply felt an emotion with nowhere to go, urging him to roar.
Like a trapped beast, like a wounded dog.
He was a wounded dog caged up, but he still wanted to go mad, to howl, to fight.
His greatest power was suppressed within him, and the Remnant Sword Technique could go no further than his flesh.
But the cold glint was already in his grasp.
He leapt high into the air.
He still had a dagger, fists, teeth...
He was not empty-handed.
His anguished heart grew more anguished.
His blood-red eyes grew redder still.
"Ah!"
He cried out like a madman, but no complete syllable escaped his lips.
The world was blood-red.
And he himself was as pale as bone.
I'll kill you, I'll kill you, I'll kill you!
His fury and hatred burned at a fever pitch.
Then a hand reached out and hovered before his brow, pressing down and stopping him.
Like an eagle pouncing on a chick.
He had even seen the whole thing happen.
The man simply raised his right hand with unhurried ease, then held his palm upright, facing him. By sheer coincidence, that palm stopped right before his brow.
And only then did Fang Heling realize he could no longer move.
That hand hovering before his brow seemed to have taken control of his body and frozen his fate.
His entire body, caught in a diving posture, was suspended in midair.
Like a kite caught on a string.
The man looked up at him.
Those eyes were gentle and calm, yet distant and mysterious.
Fang Heling inexplicably felt as if the man had seen straight through to the depths of his soul.
But