The night was as dark as ink.
The stone steps wound upward, the path broad.
The pure white soft sedan was very unique, almost devoid of decoration, with only slight wood grain.
He extended his hand and tapped the window ledge of the sedan three times, while at the same time, the resonant sound of the Hongming Bell in the Capital City spread, causing the city's atmosphere to ripple like water three times.
The person inside the sedan remained unseen, only a pair of eyes particularly noticeable in the night, half-closed and ambiguous, carrying both Buddha-like tranquility and a fearsome madness.
The King of Han did not speak; at this moment, he no longer exuded indifference. He sat in the chair as immovable as a mountain, his tea cup empty yet still gently turning in his hand.
Zhu Qianyun clutched his sword, the carriage reflected in his eyes. That internal fire kept burning, yet was entirely obscured by the surrounding darkness.
Silence, as if sound itself had been erased.
