After a full half-hour of beating, Mu Nanxing's cries of agony gradually turned into a dark satisfaction, only to revert back to painful wails. In the end, his cries slowly subsided.
At this moment, he lay on the ground, covered in wounds, his gaze vacant, as if he had turned into a salted fish that had lost its dreams, his spirit so withered it seemed ready to leave this beautiful world at any moment.
"Damn it!" The old man put away his stick, "I've been killing people all my life and never beat someone to half-dead. This is quite the workout. It's harder to beat someone half to death than to just kill them!"
"Good job, have a cup of milk tea!" Zhang Menglong, who had already prepared a cup, handed it over.
"Mmm! Delicious!" the old man said animatedly, "Is this the milk tea you mentioned yesterday? It truly is a rare delightful beverage in this world!"
