The clothes torn, what Feng Buhui saw was a face that was indescribable as either ugly or bizarre, a face that should not even be called a face.
It resembled a clumsily carved piece of knotty root, whose features were patched together with concave and convex cracks and endless bumps, with skin like mottled, rotting tree bark, emitting a scent of moss and decomposing leaves.
The limbs were like those of a dried-up tree full of branches, all signs indicating that this creature, which appeared suddenly on the way, was not of the Human Race.
Realizing this, Feng Buhui did not flinch.
As a mercenary with extensive combat experience, Feng Buhui knew that unnecessary flinching would only bring disaster.
Almost instinctively, his left hand fingers nimbly clasped the crossbow, as beautifully as when he used to shoot with his right, loading, firing the crossbow.
Shadows of arrows, five like hungry wolves leaping out and moving side by side, without the slightest deviation.
