Zhao Xing's face was overbearing, allowing no room for the slightest objection.
This group of old men had all fought their way out of mountains of corpses and seas of blood through brutal battles.
Which one of them had not fought countless battles? Which one was not a hegemon of a region, a powerhouse of a realm?
To put it bluntly.
Every one of these old men had blood all over their hands.
They had slain more demonic creatures than the people of Wusheng Mountain had eaten grains of rice.
If they had to distinguish right from wrong, not a single one of them could be called a good person. None of them were easy prey.
Chen Dahai was so frightened that he pissed himself, tears streaming wildly down his face.
His legs shook madly.
He understood that even if his father came now, all he could do was kneel and beg for mercy.
"Why aren't you getting over there and kneeling?!" Zhao Xing shouted.
The other old men simply drank and chatted among themselves, not taking this little episode seriously at all.
"I'm going, I'm going! Don't kill me! Don't kill me!"
Chen Dahai scrambled and crawled to the wall, then knelt down with choked sobs.
He was filled with regret and grievance.
In all his life, he had never suffered such utter humiliation.
He only felt that he had lost every shred of face.
He had not merely disgraced himself; he had disgraced Wusheng Mountain as well.
He felt he had let down his father and his sect. He desperately wanted to die and be done with it, yet he lacked the courage and resolve.
Tears and snot streamed down Chen Dahai's face.
He regretted ever provoking Situ Taili, ever offending an existence that neither he nor Wusheng