To walk the path of power is to bleed from the soul. But not all wounds show, some dig deep and hollow you from within.
Lu Tian's senses reeled as reality warped around him.
One moment he stood in the Garden of Weeping Blades, the next he found himself in a strange chamber, walls carved from sapphire and flowing silver mist.
Incense drifted lazily through the air. The scent was familiar, intimate, too familiar, unknowingly he had pulled a dark sword covered in ominous aura.
Before him, lying together on a raised dais of silk and light, were Zhao Fan and Jia Mei.
Lu Tian froze.
Their clothes were loosely draped over their bodies, Qi swirling in perfect harmony, Yin and Yang threads coiled and consumed one another like celestial rivers.
Jia Mei's skin glowed faintly, her breath slow and content. Zhao Fan's gaze was lazy and satisfied, but when it fell upon Lu Tian, there was no shame. Only superiority.
