As Gu Qi Zi spoke, the ghostly shadows within the mist grew even more frantic.
A few more people were dragged into the ghostly fog, and soon screams of agony echoed out.
Some others quietly fell to the ground, their faces a deathly pale, bodies cold and rigid, clearly harmed by the ghostly creatures.
But Gu Yuan's eyes flashed, and the Qiushui Sword transformed into a translucent sword light, like a faint glow as thin as a cicada's wing, piercing into the shadow of a man beside him.
Clang!
A withered, thin black claw stretched out from the shadow, clashing without flourish with Gu Yuan's sword light, producing a sound of metal striking metal.
The sound echoed, causing many to grimace in pain as large amounts of dust fell from the shabby walls around.
The withered claw seemed to have been ritualistically honed by some magic, the skin dark and wrinkled, resembling ancient wood, its nails sharp and gleaming coldly.
