More than twenty little ghosts, he killed twenty in a row, and Wen Yan still showed no sign of stopping.
On the contrary, as it went on, his patience seemed to grow thinner and thinner. Whenever a little ghost's turn came, he couldn't even be bothered to ask questions anymore. He would walk up, and the moment he saw that ghost had no intention of talking happily and straightforwardly, he sent it off immediately.
The look on Wen Yan's face was growing uglier and uglier, more and more impatient.
He was making it clear to these little ghosts: I don't care if there are fewer and fewer of you.
It's not that the fewer of you there are, the more valuable the intel you have; it's that I'm just running out of patience.
By the time he got to the last three, that little ghost whose neck was almost strangled off, the instant Gray Cloth loosened his grip, suddenly started babbling like his tongue had slipped, words tumbling out at breakneck speed.
