More eerie still, this black figure lacked a distinct shape for its head, the top merely a vague blur of darkness, as if it could spill over at any moment.
What was even odder, despite there being no wind around, not a single blade of grass on the bank was swaying, yet the edges of this shadow distorted slightly as if it had its own life.
The middle-aged Daoist priest's breath hitched instantly, his grip on the peach wood sword tightening abruptly.
He could distinctly feel a chill seeping up from the ground, crawling into his pant leg.
The three disciples were even more terrified, their faces turning ashen as their bodies instinctively moved closer to the middle-aged priest, hardly daring to breathe.
The middle-aged Daoist didn't have time to respond to his disciples; out of the corner of his eye, he saw the black shadow slowly seeping towards their shadows.
