"Who is behind you? Who gave you these things?"
Zhao Rong abruptly raised his head, his gaze fixed directly on the Confucian scholar whose smile was growing increasingly maniacal.
His eyes were as sharp as a sword's edge.
The old man's appearance was now nothing like the distinguished figure Zhao Rong remembered.
Half a year ago on Vermilion Bird Street, he saw this Confucian scholar dressed in splendid attire, standing grand and solemn.
But now, he was disfigured, hunched, and looked wretchedly sinister.
Whatever trials and tribulations he had faced were unknown, but the old man now carried an unknown Fourth Grade Golden Core and a mysterious tobacco pouch, perhaps even other hidden tricks.
It seemed he was solely out for revenge against him...
Qin Jianfu did not respond to the remark.
He quietly reattached the gray pouch to his copper tobacco pipe.
