The next day, Su Qinghou fell ill with a severe cold—stuffy nose, headache, sneezing, and even crying. Although he had sustained many cuts and gunshot wounds in the past, this was his first time experiencing such a severe cold.
Kun came over at noon. "Master."
Su Qinghou lay on the operating table and didn't move, his nose so blocked he could murder someone. A cold and glum air extended a hundred meters around him.
Just last night, Kun had been punished, and his back still stung painfully. Clearly, his master was in a foul mood, making Kun extremely nervous. He spoke with even more caution, "We received news from Golan Island."
Su Qinghou spoke in a nasal voice, heavy with menace, "Did that woman die?"
"No."
She was still lively as ever.
Kun took two steps back before continuing, "She broke Old Master Zhi's leg with a kick."
