"There are still two hundred and seventy people..."
What does this mean?
Even though she was on the brink of death, such a sentence still flashed through Long Nianqi's mind.
Daoist Changchun looked at the middle-aged woman lying prostrate on the ground, who was barely clinging to life, his eyes filled with disdain.
Flicking a glance at the wounds on Long Nianqi's body, from which the blood flowed ever more slowly, his expression was one of icy concentration, his pupils reflecting an unmelting, icy rage.
He stared at the woman in front of him, who was oblivious to her impending death, and taunted her, "I, Daoist Changchun, have roamed the Imperial Capital for more than thirty years, seeking nothing but a legacy of wealth for future generations. Now, with such a fool as you, it is as if heaven itself is aiding me! This grand affair, it must succeed at all costs!"
