CLANG!
A fierce metallic clang rang out, accompanied by a violent gust of wind. Wen Qingye's feet scraped across the ground as he was thrown back dozens of yards.
"You're quick, kid."
The old woodcutter now wore a savage expression. Clutching an iron blade, he stared coldly at Wen Qingye. Ripples of red light pulsed from his body, and the surrounding temperature seemed to climb steadily.
"The Qinghuo Race?" Wen Qingye asked, frowning at the old woodcutter before him as he suppressed the throbbing pain in the web of his hand and his chest.
'So there really are members of the Spirit Race here.' From the moment Wen Qingye saw the Zike Tree, he'd had a faint feeling that something was strange.
The Spirit Race was a race blessed by creation itself. They looked no different from ordinary people, but parts of their anatomy were extremely peculiar, and their lifespans were far beyond that of the Human Race.
They were the darlings of the heavens.
