Ten yards away, Walker cocked his misshapen head and stared at her without blinking his murky yellow left eye.
His gaze slid from her brows and eyes to the corner of her mouth, from the fingers gripping her spear to the faintly throbbing pulse at the side of her neck, before settling on her eyes, clear and cold as frost.
That look filled Zhao Zhaoxue with disgust.
She had seen too many cultivators look at her.
Some looked at her with awe, some with covetousness, some with defiance, and some with suppressed killing intent.
But Walker's gaze was none of those.
It held the obsession of a connoisseur beholding a peerless treasure, mingled with a desire to destroy and possess. It was like a greedy insect fixating on a gem it could never truly own.
"What are you looking at?"
Zhao Zhaoxue spoke.
Her voice was quiet, yet it cut clearly through the humming tremors of Saintly Breath above the arena.
Walker grinned. The uneven bone spikes in his mouth scraped against one another, making a grating sound that set the scalp tingling.
"I'm looking at a work of art."
His voice was hoarse and rough, each word carrying a low, rasping breath.
"That scent of yours... damn, it smells good."
"Clean, sharp, with the sweet tang of blood."
"I've gnawed on eight thousand bones if not ten thousand, but not one was like you."
"Do you know what you're like?"
As he spoke, he slowly extended his gray-brown, barb-covered tongue and licked the purplish scar at the corner of his mouth.
"You're like a peerless spear fresh from the quench and drawn from its sheath, cold light sharp enough to sting pouring off every inch of you."
"I can hardly wait to hold you in my mouth and grind