Li Yong didn't even glance at Lucas. He walked up to Han Qi, looked at the two halves of him, and said, "Want me to stitch you together?"
"Cut the crap and just do it. I think I can still be saved." Han Qi lay on the ground, the bone armor on his face receding to reveal his features.
Li Yong went over to the lower half of Han Qi's body, picked it up, and carried it to where the upper half lay.
The bony layer sealing the wound on the upper half vanished, and blood gushed out.
In that instant Li Yong pressed the two halves together; white threads appeared in his hands and rapidly sewed Han Qi shut along the break.
In less than ten seconds Han Qi was fully stitched up.
"Damn, you shoved my intestines back in without reconnecting them?" Han Qi wasn't grateful; his face twitched as he propped himself up and stared at Li Yong in shock.
For once Li Yong looked disgusted. "Old Han, you ate way too much yesterday. It's all crap in there. I'm not touching that stuff—someone else can fix it when we get back."
He crouched, hoisted Han Qi onto his back, and said, "Please teleport us out!"
"All right!" A voice materialized beside them; white mist rose from Li Yong's feet and wrapped the two men.
Seconds later the mist dispersed and the pair were gone…
"Huff—huff—huff!" Pale-faced, Harold walked through the gray fog, breathing hard, a musket in his hands. He kept glancing over his shoulder as though something were following him.
"Damn it, I shouldn't have come—this is one giant trap!" he cursed repeatedly to bolster his courage.
The gray fog naturally muffled sound; once you were a short distance away you couldn't hear any fighting.
Tap, tap, tap!
Soft footsteps came from his left.
"Who's there!" Harold spun, leveling his musket, his face tense as he shouted.
Tap, tap, tap!
No answer—only the steady approach of footsteps.
Harold grew even more nervous. He'd tasted the horrors here; his grip on the musket tightened and he was about to pull the trigger when—
a familiar, feeble voice called, "It's me, Oliver—don't shoot."
The words made Harold freeze. Out of the gray fog a figure limped toward him.
Only when the man came within two or three metres did Harold recognize Oliver.
Oliver was drenched in blood, his face so smeared it looked monstrous. His left ankle was shattered, his right hand gone.
He was gasping, barely able to stand. Looking at Harold he croaked, "Help… me."
Thud! The plea ended as Oliver's eyes rolled back and he collapsed unconscious.
"How—how did this happen? Even Oliver's down!" Harold stared, stammering in disbelief.
He'd hoped that if he could find Oliver they might still escape alive—yet Oliver had fallen even faster than he had.
"What do I do? In this place carrying a wounded man is suicide, but if I leave him and make it out alive the Church will kill me anyway." He stood torn, gazing at Oliver's motionless form.
After a moment he slung his musket across his back, gritted his teeth, hoisted Oliver, and pressed on through the gray fog.
Once their silhouettes vanished a silvery-white figure emerged from the mist.
Salo had been watching them the whole time. "Why let him go?" he muttered. "That kid's no weaker than a Level Six—losing an asset like that is a waste."
If he hadn't hidden dozens of tons of equipment throughout the City of Mist, he might actually have lost to Oliver.
Unprepared, he was already beyond the peak of Level Five, half a step into Level Six; now, fully equipped, he could go toe-to-toe with any Level Six.
A voice materialized beside him: "The master ordered it. Take it up with him."
At the mention of Jiang Yan, Salo's resentment vanished; he knew the Chairman was probably setting up another grand scheme.