What was even more unnerving was that no matter how close they were, the middle-aged Daoist and his companions could not see the faces of these ghostly apparitions.
Each shadow's head seemed to be shrouded in dense fog, just a blurry darkness with indiscernible outlines, as if concealing countless unknown horrors.
Merely from the omnipresent oppressive feeling, the middle-aged Daoist felt a tightness in his chest, even his hand holding the Peach Wood Sword began to sweat slightly.
The sinister energy surged like a rising tide, and the middle-aged Daoist's hand holding the Peach Wood Sword was already numb from the cold, with a thin layer of ice forming on the sword's blade.
Even the originally blazing yellow light had dimmed a few shades, barely protecting an inch around him.
Those ghostly figures continued to flow incessantly from under the streetlight, intertwining and gathering in the center, nearly encircling the four of them airtight.
