Ten minutes later, Zhou Fan stopped, standing tall and proud with his eyes closed as if immersed in some kind of atmosphere.
All around him, a row of bodies had fallen. A thin line of blood was etched across each of their necks, the blood having congealed the moment it left the wound. They had died in a circle.
In the center of the circle, at Zhou Fan's feet, was one person—or rather, one corpse, to be more precise—who was slightly different from the others. This person's entire head had been sliced clean off. On the face of the head, now separated from the body, you could still see the absolute terror and disbelief in his eyes at the moment of death.
GULP. Fan swallowed audibly, chagrined. He glanced back at the two men he had killed. 'So ugly,' he thought. 'Just so ugly. Not elegant or aesthetic at all!'
