In a nameless small valley.
A gentle breeze brushed past, causing the small lake to ripple slightly, further accentuating the natural beauty of the already picturesque scene.
But when this breath of fresh air swept over Zhang Yangping, it made him feel as if an immense weight had descended upon him. The soft breeze, like a cold blade, harbored an inexplicably stern and murderous aura, prompting Zhang Yangping to reflexively dodge to the side.
However, in the midst of the evasion, Zhang Yangping's spiritual sense told him that it was just a breeze. The so-called sharpness and murderous intent were, after all, an illusion.
'An illusion?' Zhang Yangping murmured to himself.
It should have been an illusion, since it was just a common breeze. But it also should not have been an illusion, for this breeze represented the killing intent of this piece of the world toward him.
