"Uncle Chen, you've come."
Back at the community, standing at the door of his home was a middle-aged man in his thirties or forties, with a square face and scraggly beard, but eyes hidden in wrinkles that were as sharp as knives.
Li Weifeng felt a chill in his heart.
The moment Uncle Chen turned around, with his keen spirit, he felt a thick aura of murderous intent coming right at him.
This kind of aura could only be cultivated by someone who has been through battlefields and has stained their hands with more than one life.
Uncle Chen's gaze swept over Li Weifeng for a moment.
He was a bit surprised by Li Weifeng's aura.
But his voice was still full of solemn indifference:
"I thought you would never recover, but it seems I was wrong. You're about to break through and become an official martial artist, aren't you?"
"I'm already at the limit of a quasi-martial artist."
