The chill seemed to pour in through the gaps in his bones, bypassing his skin and seeping straight into his marrow.
The hairs on the back of Yang Yong's neck stood on end, and his scalp tingled as though struck by static electricity.
Every muscle in his body abruptly contracted on reflex, and he shot upward as if launched by a spring!
A cold gleam snipped through the spot where he had just been hovering.
It was...
A pair of scissors.
Black.
Old-fashioned tailor's scissors. Both blades were mottled with rust, but what showed beneath the rust was not the color of iron, but the ghastly white of bone.
The tips bore black stains left in some unknown era, like dried blood.
At that moment, out of the corner of his eye, Yang Yong glimpsed...
The tin roof beneath where he had just been hovering had been cut open by those scissors as easily as paper, silently and effortlessly.
The cut was as even as a mirror, its edges smooth enough to reflect light.
It was as though that thick sheet metal were a sheet of rice paper.
The corner of Yang Yong's eye twitched violently.
Good thing I dodged fast enough.
Otherwise, I would have been the one cut open like paper.
"It's him."
Yang Yong looked toward where the scissors had come from.
Then he saw him.
Deep within the warehouse, in the shadows untouched by sunlight, stood an old man.
His graying hair was meticulously combed, and a pair of black-framed reading glasses rested on his nose. Behind the lenses were a pair of hollow eyes...
Without the slightest luster, they did not look like the eyes of a living creature, but two glass marbles embedded in their sockets.
He wore a faded Zhongshan suit, its four