Wang Lin's right hand formed a claw, hovering just inches from Ning Xuan's chest. His left hand clutched his own neck as fresh blood seeped through his fingers.
"I thought advancing a realm was as simple as having hands?" Ning Xuan softly retorted.
Wang Lin's eyes widened, filled with shock, horror, and despair.
With a frown, Ning Xuan took a step back. I should have focused on advancing my realm first. It cost me an extra sword strike.
His sword flashed again.
He stopped and sheathed his blade. Just as he did, a skeleton—which hadn't even hit the ground yet—was already being wrapped by him in a cloth.
Wang Lin looked down at the gaping hole in his chest and pitched forward.
Even in death, he could not understand how Ning Xuan had done it. Ning Xuan's swordsmanship was too eerie, too unpredictable, too unfathomable!
After Ning Xuan disappeared from the alley, a dust-covered, middle-aged man appeared before Wang Lin's corpse.
