Whoosh!
Black flames burned, coming from the Life Lamp in Fang Yang's mind.
In the blink of an eye, they burned the two paper figures to ashes. Their shrill screams still echoed through the air, almost tearing through everyone's eardrums.
The paper figures all froze, staring blankly at Fang Yang and the little heap of ashes on the ground. Though they had no emotions, profound fear actually showed in their hollow eyes.
"Looks like these two can't hold their liquor. They're drunk already. Judging by their condition, they're probably sleeping even more soundly than the sleeping husbands in romance films. Would the rest of you care for a couple of drinks?"
"..."
Without a word, the paper figures abruptly turned around and began crowding around the Blood Rain Cult disciples to drink again.
They drank until the disciples' faces turned pale and their entire bodies trembled.
"Red petals drift upon the water, idle sorrows in their thousands, wordlessly lamenting the east wind..."
A long while later, a mournful operatic voice rang out, accompanied by a flick of a flowing sleeve.
At some point, a graceful figure had appeared on the stage.
Her body was like a swaying willow, like floating duckweed.
With her back to everyone, she began singing opera, a spear held in her hand.
The spear was the most domineering of weapons.
Yet now, combined with the flowing sleeves, it exuded a graceful charm.
She slowly turned and gently glided, leaving her audience utterly entranced.
At last, the figure turned to face them.
Her snow-white skin betrayed a young girl's immaturity, yet her features were exceptionally sharp, with a teardrop mole at the corner of her eye.
It was none other than Fang Yang's fifth disciple.
Or rather, that face belonged to his fifth disciple.
Shing!
Ye Qinghong