"People always have something to say when they fear death, and when they have something to say, their fear of death intensifies. You all must have something to say, so speak."
A long rope, as if leading cattle, bound the hands of all the robust Zhe Dao Sect martial artists, each of whom trembled on the ground, daring not to struggle or move.
He Wei's head still lay on the ground, his eyes full of anger even in death staring at them.
The drizzle fell, splashing on the ground. Raising their heads again, they saw the Taoist clad in a Daoist robe, with a sword and knife on his back, looking at them serenely as if they were a herd of pigs or dogs.
Everyone shivered, none dared to speak first; they all looked at the one-eyed man who had been the most vocal earlier. The latter shivered, retreated a few steps, and shielded the group behind him.
Chen Yi surveyed the crowd, growing impatient. Since none were willing to talk, he would have to resort to Soul Searching.
Whoosh.
