Mu Tianzi was indeed mad. Nandu was right.
Or perhaps it was only natural; a malevolent spirit sealed in an eyeball for four thousand years, waiting to seize a body. How could it not be mad?
But his madness didn't show on his face. The sediment of four thousand years, emotions laid static like a cold sea in the dark—until they were stirred again, you would think he was normal.
Now facing Pei Ye was a man with a face taut as hard iron, eyes bloodshot with fury, hair flying wildly—like a mad lion.
The man was almost all offense.
Unless the next sword could cut off his head, he would never retreat, oblivious to the injuries inflicted by the blade.
Pei Ye was, of course, no stranger to fighting like this, trading life for life. Against formidable foes, he had often used it, unwillingly or voluntarily.
