In front of the nightclub in the Gray Rock District.
The air was as thick as solid lead blocks.
Fang Qingyu sat leaning on his knife, the molten gold vertical pupils beneath the golden Thunder Mask gazing down at the eight terrified members of the Lingxiao Association.
The command enveloped with the sound of destructive thunder.
Like a massive hammer made of substance.
Pounded fiercely into the depths of their eardrums.
Shaking their hearts almost to a standstill.
The square-faced Tier Three Martial Saint at the front instantly had beads of cold sweat seeping from his forehead, rolling down his tense temples.
His Adam's apple moved up and down with difficulty.
His throat was so dry that he couldn't make any sound.
He only felt a chill shooting from the soles of his feet to the top of his head, his limbs frozen and icy.
To... to call for help?
What does this god of slaughter want to do?!
