After a long while, the call on the communication mirror connected to Fan Ya was ended. Shang Miaoyan put the mirror down with a gentle smile and raised her head to look at the White-clothed Sword Immortal across from her.
At that moment, Pei Yuhang was bent over, panting heavily. He was simultaneously enduring the torment of the searing Yang Fire and Shang Miaoyan's assault. His face was flushed, and fine beads of sweat had even appeared on his forehead.
A bead of sweat trickled down from his forehead, along the bridge of his nose, finally pausing for a moment on his bobbing Adam's apple.
But it couldn't resist its downward fate. Carried by a cool night breeze, the bead of sweat rolled off his Adam's apple, plummeting straight toward the damp patch already on the ground.
DRIP—
To the ears of a Cultivator, the sound of the sweatdrop splashing on the ground was perfectly clear.
