Chen Yi's gaze swept across the twelve gathered below the gate tower, each dressed differently, exuding a powerful aura. Leading them was a lean man in a somewhat worn black robe, with a machete hanging at his waist. Beside him stood a middle-aged scholar, wielding a folded fan concealing a sword. Behind them was a bearded monk and two young men with long swords. Further back stood seven or eight others, some in short attire, some in long robes, some armed with knives, others with bows, a mix of the old and young.
These were death warriors secretly cultivated by Han King over the years and skilled individuals who had come from Jianghu. They leaned against the walls, folded their arms, lowered their heads in silence, or looked around, yet the intent in their eyes was uniformly murderous.
Like a taut bowstring, waiting for the command to pierce the prey.
"Just these people?" Chen Yi asked through secret transmission.
