There was silence for a long moment.
No one spoke.
Rong Lua's gaze remained fixed on the horizon, as if searching for something far beyond mortal sight. The courtyard wind howled softly, carrying the faint scent of pine and the coppery tang of fear. Song Po didn't dare utter a sound.
Then, slowly, Rong Lua turned his head. His sharp eyes, cold as tempered steel, locked onto Song Po once more. When he spoke, his tone was calm—but every word carried the weight of divine authority, making the very air seem to chill.
"I have accepted the advance payment," Rong Lua said evenly. "But do not forget—if this city somehow manages to survive the coming catastrophe, however unlikely that may be, then for the next fifty years… ninety percent of its wealth will belong to the Thousand Sword Sect."
