Chen Xuantian couldn't move.
First, Chen Dachong's body wouldn't listen to him at all; second, it was all happening too fast.
In the span of a single heartbeat, before the blood could even rush to his head,
a skinny, pitiful young boy, bare-footed, wrapped in a Daoist robe, hair loose, smiling gently, polite and refined,
and a grotesque creature with iron claws, fluttering wings, dragging tentacles, Devil Breath surging to the heavens, cold and ruthless, sticky and disgusting,
a human face and demonic shadow alternating, flickering, glitching like a broken frame rate—this figure had already stepped out of the night, walked over the black pool,
without stirring up the slightest ripple, and landed right in front of him, opening those pair of bright yellow, inhuman, monstrous pupils,
staring dead at Chen Dachong's—no, across a whole well of blood-spring, staring dead into Chen Xuantian's eyes.
"How did you know that in this life, I was planning to call myself Lingxu?"
