Yang Qing stood frozen, the only parts of him still in motion being his dilated pupils, which darted between Dean Zhu Lao and Yu Long, and his mouth, which kept opening and closing without any words coming out except for stuttered "huhs."
Finally, perhaps spurred by a cold draft that tickled his throat, Yang Qing regained some measure of composure. He closed his mouth, and the frantic speed of his darting pupils began to ebb. He still looked confused—and was confused—a feeling that only grew the longer Dean Zhu Lao maintained his deep bow. It lasted for about thirty seconds, but to Yang Qing in his agitated state, it might as well have been thirty years.
It was only when Dean Zhu Lao looked up that Yang Qing regained his voice. "Why did you do that?" he asked in a raspy, dry voice.
