Lian Youming approached at an unhurried pace. His steps looked leisurely, yet in two or three blinks, he had swept through the air and landed in the ring.
Feng Xiong and the others were all radiating formidable auras. Each had blood on his sword or on his body, clear signs that they too had fought fierce battles. Seeing Lian Youming return, Li Da, Yang Cuo, and even Situ Wudi eased their breathing. They also cast questioning looks his way, as though only knowing the outcome and receiving a definite answer could put them entirely at ease.
Lian Youming gave a slight nod.
Silence spoke louder than words.
That tremendous explosion earlier had left everyone present uncertain and shaken.
Before this era's weapons of mass destruction, even someone as powerful as a Mystic Connection Martial Artist was no more than an ant.
Fortunately, Lian Youming had returned.
Their undertaking could certainly be called a success, but whether they could withdraw safely still required consideration.
Lian Youming looked at Situ Wudi, then at Gan Xuansu.
Quite a few people stood behind Gan Xuansu, including Japanese experts dressed as ninja and martial artists in ordinary clothes. But the most conspicuous among them were two old men in old-fashioned long gowns and riding jackets, their hair still worn in queues.
The two stood to either side, tall and lean, like a pair of door gods. Both had sparse facial hair, and a sinister chill emanated from them from head to toe. One had white hair and a youthful face, his two long eyebrows drooping down; who knew how many years he had lived? The other had red eyebrows, gray hair, and an exceedingly pale, sallow face, as though he never saw sunlight all year round.
Situ Wudi stood in confrontation with these people, intending