Shen Ming's hands curled. The men around him were cowed, humiliated, and the sound of their resignation filled the courtyard. Some slunk away to lick the wounds of their pride. Others spat beneath their breath and touched the broken limbs of those left bleeding, making their own pacts: wait and avenge.
Ling Yu didn't flinch at the promises. She expected them. She expected the whispers, the hunger for revenge. That's what made people predictable. "Goodbye," she said, and turned to go.
Song led the column: Xian Yu was hanging on his shoulder to balance himself, while Nie Ziyu was close by with a bow at the ready, Ye Qingxue's sword glare matching Ling Yu's every look. Fluffy sat perched on Ling Yu's bag, cooing like an imperious baby. The rest of her small circle fell into order behind them.
