Under the night sky, the Lin Yuan City Government Office was brightly lit.
In the spacious clearing of the rear courtyard, the Martial Artists who had participated in the hunt were returning one after another, but the atmosphere was exceptionally strange and oppressive.
Most of them were injured, their faces etched with the terror and exhaustion of having narrowly escaped death.
A few of the weaker disciples were even paler, their gazes unfocused, clearly still trapped in the shadow of the day's bloody battle.
Xiong Hui stood alone in a corner, his face sullen, keeping a distance from everyone else.
His expression was livid. The once-impressive Martial Arts Hall Disciple's Robe he wore was now tattered and torn, caked with mud and dried blood.
He didn't dare to meet anyone's eyes, because the few disciples he had abandoned—who had miraculously survived—were staring daggers at him. Their gazes, a mixture of fury, venom, and contempt, looked as if they wanted to skin him alive.
