The bloody, decaying Demonic Qi in the Sword Pavilion had not yet fully dissipated, yet Chen Mo felt not a shred of fear. Leaning against the cold bookshelf, the lingering agony in his left eye felt like a receding tide, leaving behind a dull, throbbing ache. The thick, unyielding cyan-gray haze in his field of vision was slowly fading. He stared in a daze at his open hands—rough, stained with ink and dust, and trembling slightly.
The terrifying pressure of those three demonic pythons striking toward him, the fishy stench dripping from their fangs, the cold touch of death… all of it was as real as a branding iron pressed against his flesh. Yet just when he thought he was dead for sure, that old man cradling a broken teapot and dozing off had merely… brushed his sleeve? Flicked the side of the teapot?
And then, it was all gone.
Chapter 78