The man turned his head into the bitter evening wind, and in an instant, he saw the familiar scene from the video tape.
Beneath here was a rushing river, unchanged for decades, its waters like a gaping beast, capable of devouring anything.
Mo Nanjue slowed the car down, as the thunder roared and the rain thundered even harder. The man rolled up his crimson cuff, his slender arm resting on the steering wheel as he turned his head, his scarlet pupils as ferocious as wolves, staring intently at the newly built railing.
Almost blinding him.
Back then, right here, an incident occurred that seemed all too ordinary to him, a case of revenge taken, a blood debt repaid. Mo Nanjue understood this principle from the moment he stood up from a pile of corpses.
But what good is understanding?
