At the edge of the valley, a withered blade of grass swayed solitarily in the biting wind. Its shriveled form seemed to speak of the cruelty of time; each tremor was like the final struggle of a dying man, radiating a bone-chilling aura akin to a death god’s caress. This scent of death spread like a black tide, shrouding the entire valley in a grim and terrifying atmosphere.
Du Bufan stood silently, his figure like a lone wolf in the night—cold, grim, and steadfast. The gale howled, snapping against his robes, yet he remained as immovable as a mountain. His gaze was like a torch, burning with a fire of vengeance that seemed intent on piercing the endless darkness, fixed directly upon the flickering spiritual light deep within the valley. In his eyes, that light was the source of all evil, the target of his path of retribution. The inferno of his rage burned in the depths of his pupils, as if ready to reduce every obstacle to ash.
"It must be there!" Du Bufan's voice was low and hoarse, yet carried an unquestionable power. Each word seemed squeezed from between his teeth, saturated with his hatred for his enemies. With that, he vanished, transforming into a bolt of black lightning that ghosted toward the target. His speed was extreme, leaving only a blurred afterimage in the air. The wind roared behind him, as if drawn by his momentum, carving a path for his advance.
Chapter 132