Rustle, rustle, rustle.
The breeze stirred, diffusing the scent of blood.
Many things, once accustomed to, become commonplace.
After killing people before, Lin Zheyu would shiver uncontrollably and have nightmares all night.
But now, after dealing with twenty people at once, he merely sighed softly, lamenting how life is as brittle as grass.
There was little inner turmoil.
He turned to look at Xing Jinglong, this fellow was strong and robust, and with Qiao Spring dissipating some of the force of the attack, he survived Lin's full-force blow, not yet completely dead.
"Can you still talk?"
Lin Zheyu walked over to Xing Jinglong, squatted down and asked lightly.
"Who… who on earth… are you?"
"It… it can't… be…"
Xing Jinglong's eyes were somewhat dull, his speech was intermittent and unclear, and death was approaching.
He didn't understand why things would turn out this way.
