The hairpin on the head of the Martial Sect was somehow gone, his hair bun scattered, and his head full of silver strands flew up.
The loose robe on his body was also torn and tattered, leaving him only in a pair of gray pants, with nothing on his upper body.
Despite being nearly a hundred years old, the Martial Sect's muscles were like those of a robust youth in his thirties, bulging in large lumps, resembling rocks. At the same time, veins protruded, resembling dragons coiled around those rocks.
His muscles were not for show, but honed through cultivation, each cell brimming with unruly Spiritual Qi.
The Martial Sect's body bore numerous wounds—knife scars, sword marks, even bullet holes. Most shocking was a ping-pong ball-sized scar on his chest.
That was an old wound left by a life-and-death battle with Lin Tian during a breakthrough to the Golden Core, deadly enough, yet he somehow survived and seemed unfazed.
