A cold smile touched Wu Liangchen's lips.
'It seems some people just won't give up. No matter how much blood flows in Zhongjing, as long as it doesn't reach their own feet, they'll never learn what it means to be afraid.'
He remained seated cross-legged with his eyes closed, his expression unchanging, as if completely unaware of the danger outside.
The moon was dark and the wind was high—a perfect night for murder and mayhem.
A dozen or so shadowy figures slipped into the manor like ghosts. They avoided all sentries, both seen and unseen, moving with swift, silent precision. The leader gave a hand signal, and the group fanned out, closing in on Wu Liangchen's bedroom.
They crept soundlessly to the bedroom window, just as they were about to smash through it.
Inside the bedroom, the cross-legged Wu Liangchen's eyes snapped open. There was no killing intent in his gaze, only a vast indifference.
He didn't even get up, merely waving a hand casually.
"SWISH SWISH SWISH—!"
