Lu Xuan looked indifferently at the man standing in front of him, an old monk with a face full of wrinkles.
At this moment, his hands were clenched into claws, and his withered fingers resembled slender bone spurs, with a small piece of cloth still hanging from his right hand.
When the old monk saw Lu Xuan, with his chest showing no trace of injury.
His sunken, murky old eyes widened tremendously, pupils contracted, unable to believe what he was seeing.
"What!"
"How can you!"
"Who on earth are you!"
The old monk was thoroughly doubting his own life now, unable to understand.
How could the young man before him bear the full force of his attack without sustaining any injury?
He was, after all, a martial artist of the Bone Marrow Refining Realm, capable of tearing apart rocks several meters high.
As the old monk was shocked beyond belief, Lu Xuan also looked at him with a strange expression.
