Pei Yan held the knife against his palm, legs firmly set in a horse stance, right hand extended slowly. The movement seemed full of flaws, but the aura emanating from him was so overwhelming that it immobilized Wei Tianhe.
"Flood, Drown, Seven, Troops!" The words escaped Zhao Liben's throat one by one as if from the heavens. When the last word was uttered, Wei Tianhe felt the ground trembling slightly. Looking up, water began to gurgle from the walls of the Secret Prison, escalating from a gentle flow to a rushing torrent, a seven or eight-meter-high tidal wave surged across the arena in less than three minutes.
Just as the wave formed, the two black-robed men who accompanied Du Guangyuan, along with a gray-haired youth, vanished from sight, treading the water toward the Secret Prison, while the subordinates led by Prison Director Li had been waiting in the shadows.
