Leader of the Liger Gang, Lion, at seventy-one years old, has entered his elder years. His body, remarkably well-preserved, reflects his experiences through subtle wrinkles rather than the mere passage of time.
However, at this moment, it seems that the information obtained by Lian has discrepancies. From the moment the door was opened, a thrilling scent of bloodlust permeated the air, making it impossible for Xiao Lin to believe that this was the demeanor of a seventy-year-old gang leader.
Boots stepped onto the carpet, the long pile covering the tops of them. In his hand was a handcrafted longsword wrapped in cloth. Xiao Lin gazed into the unwavering eyes opposite him, sitting down on the sofa chair facing him.
