The sound of hurried breathing was almost impossible to suppress, reverberating through the alley. Behind it, the sound of clothes fluttering tightly followed, never leaving, like a night owl circling with a cold laugh.
The footsteps had already begun to become chaotic.
Xu Guangmao tightly clutched his chest with one hand, feeling that the injury could no longer be suppressed. The wound had reopened, blood soaking his inner shirt, and the smell of blood kept drilling into his nose. His vision was beginning to blur.
This was because not only was his chest wounded by a blade, but during escape, he was struck from behind; the enemy's hidden weapons technique was highly skilled, and the poison was as well.
The breathing was too hurried, and the heartbeat sound was growing louder.
At this moment, strangely enough, he no longer felt tired. The scent of blood was actually similar to the smell of rust. The wind scraped across his blood-stained chest, a northwest wind, coarse like sand.
