The Young Master lowered his head and took a light sip of the top-quality Spiritual Tea, his fingers rhythmically tapping on his knee, silently counting in his heart.
"One, two, three..."
However.
Just as he finished counting to three, a blood-soaked head rolled to his feet.
Fresh blood sprayed into the tea, staining the green liquid a bloody red.
Some blood splattered onto his face.
Making his already sinister visage even more eerie.
The Young Master stopped tapping his finger on his thigh, his narrow, elongated eyes moving upwards toward the battleground.
His eyes gradually narrowed.
The imagined scene of Jiang Fan, with his Eight-Orifice Nascent Soul, being blown to pieces in a mist of blood by the combined strike of ten generals from the East City did not appear.
On the contrary.
Jiang Fan held a finger to his lips, continuously chanting a spell.
The ten generals of the East City were all drunk, hardly able to stand.
