Wang Chen let out a long, resigned sigh, as though Bu Fang's fury had placed him in an awkward, tiresome predicament rather than a life-or-death battle. His expression was calm—almost pitying.
"Fellow Daoist," he said evenly, "it seems anger has clouded your mind. If violence is what you seek… then so be it."
"Good."
Bu Fang's sneer deepened, a twitch of his jaw betraying the bloodlust beneath his smirk. Sparks of violet danced across his forearms, crawling up his veins like living serpents. His eyes gleamed with excitement—the thrill of impending slaughter. He could almost taste it.
The next moment, the air itself shifted. Qi surged around him in a violent spiral, and the oppressive energy pressed down on the narrow alleyways. Purple arcs of lightning crackled and leapt from wall to wall, turning the dim cityscape into a landscape of flickering death.
