The killing intent was as thick as fog, suffocating.
Every abnormal sway of the branches and leaves, every fleeting glint in the shadows, signified a new enemy closing in.
The pursuers searching the nearby mountains swarmed like a bloodthirsty hive.
Li Yan leaned against a gnarled ancient pine, the Duan Chen Blade held across his body, the bloodstains on its edge glistened dark red in the dim light.
His Spiritual Sense was as taut as a bowstring, clearly perceiving not only the disordered footsteps and breathing around him but also the distant, mountain-like yet needle-sharp auras locking onto this area from afar.
This sense of oppression was definitely not something ordinary ranger warriors could compare to; it had to be true experts from the Japan Mystical Sect, possibly from Hiei Mountain or some hidden Shuyan Dojo.
The opponent was setting up a ritual ground, preparing long-range spell attacks.
He couldn't wait any longer.
