The stout woman before them possessed a physique of pure muscle. Her arms were thicker than Yan Xiaoyi’s thighs, and a conspicuous, fierce-looking mole sat right between her eyebrows.
At a single glance, anyone could tell she was no saint. She undoubtedly had three, five, seven, eight, or perhaps even twenty or thirty human lives on her conscience.
It was enough to call to mind a famous verse that would echo through the ages:
Chapter 246