At the head of the group was a man with a blue-tinted face, a scar cutting across his left cheek from brow bone to jaw. His right hand rested on the Ghost Head Saber at his waist, the red cord wound around its scabbard blackened from years of bloodstains.
"Little Master Ye certainly knows how to pick his spots." The blue-faced man grinned, revealing two front teeth stained with tobacco. "Lord Zhao said it: we need you alive, but dead... works just as well." The six men behind him drew their blades in unison, the edges flashing cold in the sunlight. The tip of one man's sword was still dripping with blood—no doubt from some unlucky mountain dweller.
Ye Fan's fingers gently brushed against the Jiuxiao Huanpei at his waist. The peach blossoms inside his Inner World suddenly shook violently, their petals shooting toward the cave ceiling like a rain of swords, pinning a stray leaf that had tried to eavesdrop tightly against the stone wall.
Chapter 113