Fang Han had been using the Tortoise Breath Technique to conceal his realm, suppressing his aura to an extremely low level.
Thus, without activating his internal force, he looked no different from a martial artist at greater transformed force.
This led the third chief to believe he was merely a Transformation Realm martial artist. He sat astride his horse, looking askance with his triangular eyes, a contemptuous sneer curling his lips.
As far as he was concerned,
the young man before him, barely in his twenties, was nothing but a reckless greenhorn who knew neither the height of heaven nor the depth of earth.
Relying on a few fortuitous encounters, he had dared to charge their formation alone on horseback, courting death.
Inside the Maple Forest,
apart from the third chief confronting Fang Han, the other bandits accompanying him from the Soul-Severing Stronghold also closed in with savage grins.
There were eight of them, all dressed in fitted black robes, long sabers hanging at their waists and vicious light gleaming in their eyes.
The eight took staggered positions in eight directions, surrounding Fang Han at their center.
The distances between them were just right for mutual support, methodically cutting off every route Fang Han could take.
Once the encirclement tightened, they left the fighting ground to the third chief.
This was the Soul-Severing Stronghold's usual tactic.
Surround first, fight afterward; encircle without attacking, leaving the chief to strike first and finish the target.
The others were responsible for blocking retreat and preventing the target from fleeing.
They had clearly practiced this coordination. All eight moved with practiced ease, their footsteps landing soundlessly.
Not far away,
the third chief sat on horseback, looking down at Fang Han from above.
He held his ten-foot-long great axe across his body, its blade gleaming