Xie Xun's arm was slashed deeply by a blade, with blood and flesh turning outward. After the doctor stopped the bleeding, he stitched the wound. The pain of stitching, compared to the broken leg and poison wounds from before, was minor in comparison. Yet Xie Xun was still tormented by the stitching, breaking out in cold sweat, his vision turning dark. When Lin Helin entered, Xie Xun's consciousness was slightly clearer.
Lin Helin sat at the warm couch, casually flipping through the notebooks on the desk. After flipping a few pages, he had a good grasp—these notebooks, he had seen before. Their literary talent was extraordinary and written with deep sentiment, depicting the image of Xie Xun as a tyrant, deeply ingrained in people's hearts.
"How did Li Pengfei manage to wound you?" Lin Helin asked.
"Blades and swords are blind; everyone has moments of carelessness," Xie Xun said indifferently. "I haven't slept for days, and he ambushed me. I was caught off guard and injured."
