Yang Ye was a man of integrity; he did not call for help, nor did he simply lie on the ground waiting for death to arrive.
From his bosom, he drew a short sword inlaid with gems, lifted his head, and plunged the sharp blade into his own neck, blood spurting out, looking like blossoming red plum flowers amidst the leaping white mist. With a muffled thud, his tall and burly body fell backward, lying face up in his own dark red pool of blood.
"Amitabha Buddha!" Ban Poluo immediately showed a sorrowful expression on his face. With one hand clasped together, and the other turning a skull rosary, he began to chant sutras under his breath, initiating the ritual to liberate Yang Ye's departed soul.
"This monk..."
Li Hongxiu, standing to one side and watching Ban Poluo's earnest demeanor, couldn't help but frown deeply.
The monk's hypocritical behavior truly disgusted her.
She decided to look away.