The room was still.
Blood painted the floor. Broken tables groaned under the weight of fallen assassins, and the air reeked of burnt talismans and shattered pride.
Among the debris, the scar-faced man slowly rose to his knees, one hand clutching his mangled wrist, his face pale with pain.
His eyes were fixed on Bai Zihan.
Bai Zihan!
The name echoed in his mind like thunder.
He had heard the stories, of course. Everyone had.
He had scoffed at those stories like many others.
Exaggeration, he'd thought.
Typical noble propaganda. Just another overhyped brat from a powerful clan, with resources and elders cleaning up after him.
But now—
Now he could still feel the pain in his broken bones, the fear that gripped his lungs, and the cold sweat soaking his back.
He clenched his teeth, humiliated.
He had ganged up on him. With others. Nascent Soul. Soul Formation. Veterans. Killers.
And still, they had been played with like insects.
His eyes trembled as he looked up again.
