The old man holds a gray smoke pipe, calmly lifts his foot, steps over the blood-colored Hexagram, walks to Zhao Rong's side, lifts one foot, and with a 'bang,' steps on the coal-like side of Zhao Rong's forehead.
He bends slightly, calmly lowers his gaze, and looks at the disfigured and one-armed young Confucian Scholar:
"Looking like this, even if I let you go back, will those beloved beauties be able to accept what you've become? Heh..."
The disfigured old Confucian Scholar's lips curl into a slight arc.
Mocking smiles on both flesh and spirit.
"Now we are both stray dogs."
On the ground, the black-as-coal man whose head is stepped on by the old man grits his burned black teeth tightly. He swallows the moans that continuously overflow from his throat, his indistinctly burned lips tremble slightly.
As if saying something.
