The cacophony of curses, intermingled with the sound of rain hitting the forest leaves, seemed like an alien sound from another world.
A gentle rustling of the breeze, another fleeting figure appeared, seemingly untouched by dust, standing among the treetops. The soles of their feet rested on a branch no thicker than an infant's arm, swaying with the wind, yet they showed no signs of falling, exhibiting an extraordinary mastery of Qinggong.
"If you had used the poison needle instead of an egg just now, wouldn't that new Shaolin abbot have gone directly to Yama Palace?"
The man perched on the treetop touched his mustache with his fingers and smiled.
A voice came from the other side, "Though the Shaolin monks may seem annoyingly pedantic, at least there's one thing admirable about them—they're not afraid of death. Killing a fearless person is inherently meaningless. But luckily, it's not that they have nothing to fear; they fear being scorned by a group of weaklings."
