Xiao Xiao stared at the small glass bottle and adjusted his glasses.
Xin Fat Man scratched his chin with the feather on the end of his pen.
Zheng Qing, however, straightforwardly picked up the small glass bottle, shook it, observed the black liquid clinging to the bottle, and then, under Zhang Ji Xin's approving gaze, removed the wooden stopper, carefully fanned the air, and sniffed the scent wafting from the bottle.
A scent of death overwhelmed him.
Zheng Qing had never realized that death could become a scent.
It wasn't the dry smell of coal, nor the scorching sulfurous scent of magma, and it didn't carry a hint of putrid decay, just a pure essence devoid of vitality and life.
"What is this?" He handed the bottle to the doctor, frowning at the red-faced male wizard.
"Not sure."
