Fang Qingyu's gaze fell on this newly appeared black-robed figure.
In those starlight-flowing eyes, a flicker of understanding flashed by.
He even raised his hand, greeting from far away, casually waving, his tone familiar and sure:
"Yo, you're here?"
"You the grandson?"
The deliberately unhurried steps of the black-robed man suddenly halted the instant he heard the word "grandson."
Under the hood, even that writhing patch of black liquid seemed to freeze for a moment.
Killing intent instantly spread out from beneath the black robe.
"Courting death—"
A low growl, forced down, exploded from beneath the hood.
The very next instant.
Whoosh.
The black-robed man's figure vanished from where he stood.
Almost in the same split second he disappeared, a palm covered in thick, writhing black liquid, reeking of a cloying, bloody sweetness, appeared out of nowhere right before Fang Qingyu's throat.
Speed beyond even those eight Divine Bone Martial Saints.
