In the pitch-black hall, a dim yellow light flickered, barely illuminating a dining table.
Yang Jian, Zhang Wei, Liu Qi, Miao Xiaoshan, and Wang Shanshan sat around this table, motionless, without making the slightest sound, even restraining their breathing as much as possible.
Because behind them, in the darkness, stood countless shadowy figures.
But at this moment, Yang Jian's eyes were locked on the figure behind Zhang Wei, which leaned out of the darkness, revealing a strange face.
Rather than calling it a person, it would be more accurate to say that this thing was likely a ghost.
Zhang Wei's breathing became somewhat erratic; his eyelids twitched, and he couldn't help but glance upwards. He could distinctly feel the icy coldness of the figure above him, without the slightest warmth, and just being near it made his skin crawl. Yet, his hand remained tightly clenched around the red axe.
