That talisman actually melted and fused into his flesh, sealing the wound, and the blood returned to his face in an instant.
"You're right—contesting the sect inheritance is not a matter of pride," Zhang Fan said coldly.
The struggle for succession is, of course, never fair, nor does it abide by the rule of many bullying the few.
With life and death at stake, the means matter not.
Zhang Fan fell silent, turning to look at the desolate, run-down Daoist Temple—Li Miaoyin had yet to return, and Zhao Jie Xuan remained unconscious.
Surrounded by four masters, not to mention the elusive Li Changgeng who had yet to show himself.
Zhang Fan understood…
"Looks like it's really do-or-die now!" Zhang Fan muttered softly.
"Old Zhang, count me in—I'll fight to the death, too!"
Just then, a hearty laugh echoed from a great distance away.
Zhang Fan's eyes lit up; he looked up and saw a youth gliding in with a paraglider riding the wind—who else could it be but Fang Changle?
"Maoshan!?"
