The iron-masked man's voice was like an ice-dipped awl, piercing the damp air of the stone chamber. Ye Fan's ear tips twitched, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end—this voice was identical to the one from just before the stone wall closed, the one that had said, "The Jiuxiao Huanpei is yours, and it is yours no more."
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Qín Wǎnshuāng's fingertips gripping the coral sword tassel of the Soft Sword at her waist. General Lǐ twirled the Dark Iron Saber in his palm, the blade reflecting the tense expressions of all three. "Shuang'er, retreat behind the stalagmite," Ye Fan barked in a low voice, his palm pressing against the sharkskin scabbard of the Black Sword at his waist.
When he was hunted down by the Nether Sect in his past life, it had been this exact sinister tone. Those old bastards had used "hand over the ancient divine artifact" as an excuse to trap him in the Soul-Locking Abyss to feed ghost cultivators for a hundred years. His Adam's apple bobbed as the five-inch space within his Inner World suddenly rippled. The Power of the Heavenly Dao surged upward along his meridians, and the scenery in his field of vision instantly became ten times clearer—the moss at the iron-masked man's feet was corroded into scorch marks by black mist, and within the black mist seeping from the cracks of the bronze mask, tiny phantom skulls were gnawing at the air.
Chapter 103