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... into an ink-like scroll.
Zhao Douan rode a fine horse, scrutinizing the road ahead and the white-robed monk in the middle.
He appeared to be in his thirties, with gentle and handsome features, a composed demeanor, and his sparse eyebrows framed his eyes, clear as those of an infant.
Zhao Douan had never met Bian Ji, but he had seen his portrait.
Added to that, the martial artist’s instinctive wariness towards cultivation powerhouses, he had already guessed seventy ...
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