Old Tailor.
That thing stood just ten paces away, his blue-gray robe billowing in midair without any wind.
His face was so dark it could have dripped water, his mouth turned down, his eyes flashing with venom.
The measuring tape in his hand hung halfway down. Three embroidery needles hovered faintly beside him, their tips gleaming coldly as they silently rotated, taking aim at something.
The Tailor Eerie stared fixedly at Yang Yong, undisguised malice churning in his eyes.
But what concerned Yang Yong more was...
This Eerie had not attacked.
It was holding back.
The Qipao Female Ghost, the Song Family Eldest Miss.
She stood to the tailor's right, her paper-white face expressionless once more.
She still wore her qipao, but the edge of its hem was rippling slightly.
She was staring at something in the distance. Her lips moved, but no sound came out.
Wang Ying.
He stood five paces to Yang Yong's left, still swinging the Black Gold Bone Blade in his hand.
One slash, two slashes, three...
Her movements were mechanical and stiff, hacking at something invisible.
Her eyes were vacant, her pupils unfocused. Clearly, she had not yet fully broken free of the illusion.
And Liu Hong.
Farther away, the burly man was squatting on the ground, still in the posture of stuffing things into his mouth.
His hands seemed to be clutching something, shoveling handful after handful into his mouth. His cheeks bulged like a squirrel's, and clear drool trickled from the corners of his mouth.
But his eyes were glazed too, his pupils fixed motionlessly on the empty space before him. It was as though his soul had been sucked out.
The people from that convoy.
The sniper and several Transcendents stood on the outermost edge, their weapons frozen in midair, only half