At the very moment when the two disciples of the Bodhi Sect met their demise,
the grand hall, once shining with golden splendor, had become a scene of utter ruin, and now it quietly turned unreal.
Even the resplendent golden statue seemed like a fleeting illusion, dissolving and vanishing in an instant.
On the long street crowded with people, a sudden stench of blood spread swiftly, causing passersby to stop in shock.
On the blue stone pavement, only two pools of blood remained, silent witnesses to what had just transpired.
Far away, on another street,
a man in white robes, holding a wine gourd and drunk, suddenly twitched his nose.
His eyes cleared noticeably.
Furrowing his brow, he caught the faint but rich scent underlying the blood aura.
Meng Xiuwen cast a spell and stepped forward in a single stride.
His figure appeared before the two pools of blood.
Pushing aside the onlookers, he bent down and touched the blood stains with his fingertip.
Seeing the golden light points in the blood begin to dim, his last thread of drunkenness vanished, and a chill ran down his spine.
“Something bad is coming...”
For some unknown reason, although Meng Xiuwen hadn’t fully processed his thoughts, his legs instinctively surged forward, running toward that inn.