At the edge of the Great Desolation, deep within an old forest steeped year-round in sunless poisonous miasma.
A wet, sucking wrench sounded from a huge black, stinking bog, enough to set one's teeth on edge.
Lu Chen's broad, heavy black-iron foot pulled cleanly from the patrol captain's utterly burst-open, pulverized skull.
Thick, warm Foundation Establishment blood pulp, mixed with gray-white rotten flesh leaking its vital essence, dripped in great drops from the rough soles of his iron boot.
A sinister wind rose from the depths of the Great Desolation, sweeping up that immensely rich death-blood essence and wildly blowing it far into the depths of bogs in every direction.
That earthshakingly barbaric stomp wiped out every last loose end of the killing.
Every lackey who had tried to come snatch a share of the spoils at the end of the battle had been crushed into dead, rotten scraps. There had not been the slightest hesitation; it was utterly satisfying.
Lu Chen bent his waist, thicker than the trunk of a century-old tree.
His large, callus-covered hand reached out without ceremony and yanked the three high-grade storage pouches from the tall mountain-patrol deacon's headless remains.
He could not even be bothered to inspect what superior treasures were inside those expensive pouches. With a casual slap, he brutally stuffed them all into the inner layer of the Netherwind Wolf-hide sling holding A-Nan against his chest.
This great fiend who had punched a hole through the heavens had never once abandoned his bottom line of protecting his cub.
The stores carried by those lofty immortal cultivators surely contained dozens of top-grade spirit medicines aged for many years.
He would take them back, mash them up and boil them down, then use every bit to build bone and make blood for the little