SHLICK—
With a casual swing of his sword, Fang Han lopped off Gong Biao's remaining left hand, sending blood spraying everywhere.
To him now, there was no difference between a Sixth Grade, Seventh Grade, or Eighth Grade Martial Artist—none could withstand a single strike from his sword.
"AHHH—"
As Gong Biao reeled from the excruciating pain and tried to retreat, a cold blade was already resting against his neck. The bone-chilling coldness froze him in place.
The fight had started suddenly, but it ended even faster.
In just a few dozen breaths, the main road was littered with the bodies of the Gong Family's Martial Artists.
Only Gong Biao remained, his face pale as a sheet, held at swordpoint by Fang Han, unable to move an inch.
"Where is Gong Xing?"
Fang Han's voice was ice-cold, devoid of any emotion.
"Haha, Xing'er isn't even with us! He left Qingyang County long ago. You'll never find him!"
