Those towering figures who once graced the grand hall, those hands that seemed to easily decide the life and death, glory and shame of tens of thousands, actually trembled slightly when picking up that piece of paper.
Every word was familiar to them.
Because the letter was written by a hidden spy, a shadow without a past, nor a future. Their handwriting bore no distinctive features, because features meant clarity, meant being recognized.
Recognition would mean death.
Their hands could emulate the handwriting of anyone under heaven, but now, those with different faces, different ages, different experiences in life, had written characters, each stroke, each corner, soft, upright, elegant, all soaked in blood.
The pervasive murderous aura emanated from the distant desolate Great Desert, piercing through thousands of miles, quietly blooming in the redwood tower lit by scented candles, still fierce, still deadly, as if tinged with the chill of the Northern Desert.
