Wang Jingyuan stood there like nothing happened. His shirt sleeve was torn, let's ghis face pale, but his lips, tinged with red, pulled into a slight smirk.
It was the kind of expression that didn't match the moment at all—cool, aloof, like the pain didn't even register.
He looked like a fallen aristocrat with a switchblade. Or a vampire caught mid-meal.
However, the person himself appeared as if he hadn't even noticed the wound as he raised his arm, seemingly ready to give that person another lesson.
Lu Qingyan couldn't bear to watch anymore, so she walked over and directly held his wrist.
From close up, that long and narrow wound looked even more sinister as the blood gurgled out of his overturned flesh, it even caused her hand that was holding onto his to tremble slightly.
