This trick of the old man Wan really made it possible for the Vedic dance vajra to become a thousand-layer silver umbrella dripping. Yue Zipeng was stunned for a while and couldn't help but yelled well. The voice is undecided, and Mr. Wan has already come to an end. In the blink of an eye, the iron box in his hand slammed to the ground, and the black noodle-like rope in his hand was condensed in a plastic turntable.
"This is a tape." Thousands of beads of mung bean-sized sweat rolled down from the forehead and cheeks of Old Man Wan.
Yue Zipeng shook his head, first to show that he hadn't seen this stuff before, and second to show that he didn't know what the tape was. Old man Wan knows his expression by looking at him, so he smiled bitterly and pulled off the hem of his robe, wrapped the plastic turntable and tapes in three layers, and took out a chain watch from his jacket pocket and used the chain. Wrapped the lapel around twice, thought for a while, and then bent over and picked up the bottom layer of the previous painting from the pile of ash particles—unexpectedly, the man couldn’t hold it, and a stumbling servant fell on The ground, but his body suddenly turned over in midair, smashed his back, and couldn't help it anymore in the corners of his mouth, nostrils, eye sockets, and ear holes, dripping with eight blood. One right hand stretched out upright, holding the bag with a guilty palm. Yue Zipeng just looked at him: I don't know what kind of technique Old Man Wan has used, he has folded the picture into a paper square the size of a banknote and stuffed it between the gold chain and the bag.
"Brother Zipeng, give this thing to someone, don’t let outsiders know. This person will come to you and give you five copies of the token." As the old man said, he coughed and choked. After taking a sigh of relief, he sighed leisurely, "What a pity! But I was so hurried in the beginning. It didn't explain the mysterious reasoning of the spot on the bamboo joints of his painting. Alas! Why? This deserves to be stunned.” His eyes bulged violently as he spoke, and pillars of white steam spurted from his chest. When Yue Zipeng stepped forward to take over the lapel bag, he discovered that five openings appeared in his chest, blood and water gurgling out like a spring. He really never closed his eyes, staring straight at the roof of the pavilion, while the two palms that fell loose were deeply embedded in the ground made of bluestone.
What happened next has nothing to do with this bamboo forest Qixian. Yue Zipeng took out the six gold bars on the table and slapped the table with a hand—of course, this is what the practicers meant to fight—he saw Wan Xi brush off dozens of tableware with a palm, and then used it in front of him. His life's stunt, the boss in his heart was unhappy, and he flicked like this, and he actually brushed the solid red cypress round table weighing more than a hundred jin to the heart of the lotus pond twenty or thirty meters away. This is a good one. An elegant collection of "Lotus Wind Raising the Moon" was completely scattered this night. There was only an old skin bag and a pile of gray and white stone table powder left in the pavilion.
A few minutes later, police officers and military police guard brigade support troops who were ordered to clean up sealed off the scene. After another quarter of an hour, all the police officers withdrew, leaving the guard brigade supporting troops to stay there for 16 hours. During this period, no real military police was allowed to approach the lotus pond, the embankment, or even the pavilion within a radius of 100 meters. In this range, there are only four security bureau officers who are instructed by Jifeng to take care of "all related matters" and a figure called Wan Defu—needless to say, the latter is a steward under the house of Mr. Wan. He came to collect the body; as for the four security bureau officials, he came to finalize the case.