The relapse of the old ailment while forcefully using spiritual power gradually imparted a touch of deathly pallor to his face.
Yet, even so, Chen Xiaolan, a mere mortal without a spirit root and only shallow cultivation, was utterly powerless against him.
With a slight movement of Meng Zifei's fingers, the chords in the air transformed into bursts of high-frequency buzzing sounds.
"Buzz..."
The transparent thread danced frantically in the wind, suddenly tightening around Chen Xiaolan's slender neck.
The crimson liquid dyed the invisible threads, casting sharp, elongated outlines, and as the wind and snow blew, tiny blood-colored ice crystals clung to them.
Chen Xiaolan's neck split with pain, unable to utter a sound, she could only look at Meng Zifei with a gaze full of terror and helplessness, pleading for mercy.
The barren and desolate snowy mountain wind grew stronger.
