Wang Jian turned slowly to face him, his expression one of almost lazy contempt. He looked Mo Jiao up and down, from his blood-stained, ill-fitting robes to his gaunt, almost skeletal frame.
A smirk touched Wang Jian's lips.
"And here I was expecting a true demon," Wang Jian's voice was calm, conversational, yet it cut through the tense air with the sharpness of glass. "You just look like a starved dog that's been rolling in a rubbish heap. Is this truly the best the Blood Fiend Sect can produce these days?"
Mo Jiao's red eyes narrowed, a flicker of disbelief in them. He was used to terror, to pleas for mercy, not… mockery.
"You dare," Mo Jiao hissed, taking a step into the cave, his mid-stage Foundation Establishment aura flaring outwards, thick and foul with the stench of spilled blood, "speak to me, Mo Jiao, in such a manner?"
