In front of Xia Liang's seat sat a single glass filled with wine. Inside it was a small paper figure he had torn out. After struggling for a few moments, the paper figure became thoroughly soaked and began to sink. Its hands, waving weakly in the wine, seemed to fight against its fate. A few seconds later, however, it settled at the bottom of the glass, motionless.
At that moment, Sun Zhihai and the others felt as if they had become that little paper figure. No matter how they struggled, no matter how hard they tried, the only outcome was death. A boundless darkness surged around them, threatening to envelop them completely. Right here, while they were having dinner with him, Xia Liang had decided a man's fate with a single thought. He had even meticulously arranged the method of death. He had never even seen the murderer, yet he took the man's life as casually as if sharing a joke.
