Pan Man spat blood and flew backward.
This time, it wasn’t the blood forced out by the scuffle in the Green Willow Pavilion—it was from being badly beaten.
“A master... no match... ahhh!”
Pan Man flew in the air, coughing blood and screaming hoarsely.
He had brought over a hundred barbarian soldiers with him.
Among them, several men with graying hair and short stature, looking to be over fifty years old, let out a long howl.
They tore open their beast-skin armor, revealing chests covered in bluish-green veins.
Amid their howling, the flesh on their chests writhed.
With several ‘pfft pfft’ sounds, finger-thick holes burst open on their chests, from which a dozen or so blood-colored centipedes with wing-like membranes on their backs hissed fiercely as they shot into the air.
Lu Qin’s face twisted in horror; the hairs on his body stood on end.
In the Southern Barbarian State, the masters of insects—he had read about them in some strange myth books—were the most fearsome beings you could encounter.
In the Southern Barbarian State, offending the local lords, chiefs, or tribal chieftains usually meant you would be chopped into mince and fed to dogs in the worst cases.