The silence that followed Sian's terrifying words was like a blade pressed against the skin—thin, sharp, suffocating. His threat had cut through the air, leaving it trembling. The others in the room barely dared to breathe, their fear thick enough to taste. The atmosphere was on the verge of collapsing into chaos when Sian's hand twitched, ready to swing in ruthless execution.
But before steel could carve flesh, a hand clamped firmly down on his shoulder.
Sian froze—not because he hadn't known. He had felt the disturbance in the air even before it happened. His senses, honed through blood, betrayal, and endless battles, could detect killing intent long before the blade fell. And yet, when that touch landed on him, he didn't resist. He already knew whose hand it was.
Lan Qisheng.
