Li Jiangong.
Tall and imposing, though over seventy years old, his eyes were as large as copper bells, deep and bright. Paired with a face as wrinkled as old tree bark and the blood-dripping broadsword in his hand, he appeared ferocious, his murderous aura overwhelming.
As he spoke, the wind howled, carrying a desolate, sobbing murmur.
"That piece of trash is probably a cold corpse by now. Do you still intend to resist?" Li Jiangong's mouth curled into a smile. It wasn't overtly chilling or terrifying, yet it was enough to send a shiver down one's spine.
Opposite him, Chen Shangwu was in a wretched state. The cool breeze blew through his blood-stained, grizzled hair, painting a sorrowful picture of a hero in his twilight years.
Subconsciously, he glanced in the direction of the Luo Family, his gaze dimming.
"That brat Chen Yang is tough as nails! Have you all forgotten how he slaughtered you before?" Chen Shangwu said coldly, his eyes narrowed and his teeth clenched.
