"Of the three hundred villagers, none survived…"
When Dugu Wushuang said that, he was in a rather heavy mood. In troubled times, everyone was struggling to survive, and none were more miserable than these mortals. The snow-covered village might once have flourished, but now it was deserted. In troubled times, human life was nothing.
He was silent. It was not that he did not want to speak, but he could not. Fear rose from the depths of his soul and made it difficult for him to even catch his breath. With a clang, his sword fell to the ground, and so did he. His pupils narrowed as he looked at Bu Fang in horror.
At this moment, the mortal in front of him seemed as terrible as a god.
"Immortal Master…"
Dugu opened his mouth and struggled to make a sound. It was as if there was a hand around his throat. Suddenly, the horrible aura disappeared. His whole body relaxed at once. Although it was winter, he was soaked with cold sweat, and beads of sweat rolled down his forehead.
