The blood on the ginkgo leaves was not yet dry when a dense murderous intent began to seep through the green brick gaps in the backyard of the Xuan'an Bureau.
Just as Pi Yanlin cradled Su Wan'er to the entrance of the side hall, the hairs on the back of his neck suddenly stood on end.
This was an intuition he had only developed after a century of cultivating the Lazy Immortal Formula—like an old cat dozing against a sunlit wall, able to sense the low rumble of thunder before a downpour.
Chapter 113