Thirty minutes passed in the silence.
Fang Han remained in the same position the entire time, like a lifeless statue hidden in the shadows of the canopy.
His gaze passed over the sparse woods, landing on the completely unaware bandits in the mountain hollow.
Some had eaten and drunk their fill and were lying on the ground for an afternoon nap.
In front of the tent, the three Fourth-Grade Martial Artists were still conversing in low voices, occasional stifled laughs echoing out.
Beside the bundles of medicinal herbs, two bandits sat leaning back, making idle chitchat.
A breeze drifted from the hollow, carrying the aroma of food and a sense of the bandits' unguarded relaxation.
Fang Han slowly raised his right hand.
Behind him, the dozen or so elite disciples tensed simultaneously, their hands moving to the hilts of their sabers and swords, their eyes locked firmly on their respective targets.
His right hand chopped down fiercely.
WHOOSH!
