On the opposite side of the platform, Wang Zongyao turned toward Tang Wuying with a broad, almost gentle smile.
"Brother Tang," he said lightly, "your Bai Ye truly impressed me. Even learning a pseudo-Heaven-rank high-grade martial art at his age is in and of itself an achievement. Pity that he was born in our Li Wei's era.
Tang Wuying's face darkened like thunderclouds rolling in. He snorted once, the sound sharp and cold.
"Brother Wang's schemes run deeper than I expected," he said stiffly. "I underestimated Fengyue City. Losing is losing. The Black Silk Treasure Armor is yours."
Without another word, he reached into his spatial ring and produced the armor—a sleek, dark garment that shimmered faintly with inner light. He extended it toward Wang Zongyao, hand steady despite the visible tightness in his jaw.
Wang Zongyao accepted it with both hands, smile widening.
"Then I must thank Brother Tang."
Tang Wuying gave another cold snort and turned to leave.
