Snow swept sideways, carried by the fierce wind through the long corridor, howling recklessly. The faint white flakes merged into the darkness of the night.

Her clear voice reached his ears, and his heart clenched involuntarily.

The palace attendants who had led the way were gone. As he gazed at Ye Rong’s face, half-veiled in shadows, the icy air mingled with the stillness, and Mo Qiehuai’s deep voice broke the silence.

“Your Grace, such refined leisure... or perhaps I should still call you Rouge Maiden?”

“You believe I’ve plotted against you, General. And yet... I could say the same of you.”

He stepped toward her slowly. Only when he drew closer did he see the faint smile on her lips, though her slender brows were slightly furrowed.

This woman stood alone, waiting for him in the desolate corridor.

A surge of inexplicable emotion rose in Mo Qiehuai’s chest, and one word surfaced in his mind: loneliness.

His sharp gaze dimmed. Gripping the white marble railing, he took a deep breath, calming his racing heart until his tone resumed its habitual, unaffected calm.

“Your Grace is truly amusing. You tell me the blaze at Rouge Pavilion in Guazhou, where no one survived, was a misunderstanding? Isn’t that too—”

“You sought me out?”

She tilted her head slightly, her posture regal, exuding an inexpressible cold arrogance amidst the wind and snow.

The atmosphere turned subtle, the words he had intended to say tightening like a noose around his throat. At that moment, he couldn’t utter a single word.

“So, you did come looking for me... We missed each other, it seems. Just by a hair’s breadth.”

Her voice was light, ethereal, like a slender needle piercing his heart.

Reason clawed at his thoughts, suppressing countless questions. Taking another deep breath, he spoke with his usual playful tone:

“The person you mentioned back then turned out to be His Majesty. Truly unexpected. The ‘you’ he spoke of, and the one I see before me, are worlds apart. I wonder—who is real, and who is the façade?”

But in his peripheral vision, he caught her pale hands trembling as they gripped the carved railing. His heart, like a wild beast, gnawed relentlessly, driving him to abandon restraint.

Unable to resist, he grasped her slender hand, attempting to warm her with his touch.

“Are you cold?”

“Roga said you are his sharpest blade.” She turned her hand to hold his, her delicate fingers trailing slowly, tenderly over his skin as if caressing a priceless treasure. “And these hands... they will soon be stained with my Ye clan’s blood.”

“You know everything?!” He yanked his hand back abruptly, his brows knitting tightly, his sharp gaze fixing on her. The chill in his voice betrayed his guardedness. “You are truly formidable.”

“I know,” she said, her voice steady, “but I cannot stop it.”

The wind carried its biting chill, making her hair and dress tremble. Bereft of warmth, she shivered before lifting her head slightly.

Under the night sky, pain flickered clearly in her eyes.

For a moment, he froze. Then, his brow furrowed deeply before transforming into a cold sneer.

“And you think you can drive a wedge between me and His Majesty?”

At his words, she lowered her gaze but then raised it again, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears, her voice unshaken.

“The night grows late. If you don’t leave the palace soon, it will be too late.”

Without a servant to guide her, she fumbled forward, step by step.

Watching her labored movements, a surge of irritation overwhelmed him. With a flick of his robe, he strode forward to catch up with her.

Though she was blind, her ears were keen. Hearing his footsteps behind her, she sighed softly and stopped.

“Qiehuai...”

Seen up close, her features, as if painted by the most divine hand, were breathtaking. Her delicate lips, her sharp chin, her fragile frame... every curve seemed sculpted with unparalleled artistry.

He wanted to marvel at her beauty.

Yet, more than that, he wanted to hold her.

As if enchanted, he reached out carefully, gently grasping her slender arm as though fearing it might break under the slightest pressure.

“I’ll take you back.”

She did not refuse. Biting her lip, she seemed to accept with a sorrowful resignation, allowing him to lead her forward.

The snow fell softly, filling the air with its faint scent. Snow was scentless, of course, so it must have been her fragrance.

“You were born to command the attention of those around you,” he murmured, his tone laced with bitterness. “You can’t be without someone by your side, not for a moment. How foolish of me to think otherwise...”

Before he could finish, the brightly lit Ningye Palace appeared in the distance. He saw Hedu waiting in the shadows, hurrying to her side to offer his support.

Slowly, Qiehuai released her hand. As he let go, he said quietly,

“If you must blame someone, blame your surname—Ye.”

She seemed to gasp for breath, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Turning toward him, her lips quivered, curling into the faintest, most sorrowful smile.

“Qiehuai, sins do not extend to the clan.”

With that, she walked away gracefully.

He stood, watching her retreating figure vanish into the depths of the palace. His fists clenched, nails digging into his palms.

There was so much to do, and no matter the cost, he would not be an exception.

October 25th

The Empress's birthday, with the Emperor’s tacit approval, was elevated to a grand celebration.

The morning was shrouded in mist, but by afternoon, though the air remained bitterly cold, the sun emerged, scattering the haze and brightening the day.

Under the brilliant sunlight, the imperial palace gleamed resplendently. Golden eaves and intricate beams soared majestically, while celestial music echoed through its halls.

The Taiji Hall of the palace was adorned with vibrant red carpets. Roga sat regally upon the throne, with Ye Rong seated to his left, accepting the obeisance of the court officials.

On such an occasion, Ye Rong wore a somber black ceremonial gown. Golden threads intertwined with silver embroidery to form flying phoenixes, while the hem was adorned with water-cloud motifs, exuding an understated crimson sheen of unparalleled splendor. Yet, the more vibrant the colors, the paler her complexion seemed by contrast.

The formal salutations extended from afternoon to dusk, after which the hall was illuminated with brilliant lanterns, and a feast was held for the officials.

Attendants in elegant robes, their flowing sleeves like clouds, served sumptuous delicacies, filling the hall with enticing aromas.

Amidst the clinking of goblets and the laughter of monarch and ministers, a subtle tension lingered. Keen observers noted an unsettling absence: Lingzhou Marquis Ye Kesuo, Qingzhou Marquis Ye Fengming, and the Emperor’s trusted confidant, Mo Qiehuai, had not arrived.

This faint breeze of unease swept through the gathering, prompting hushed speculation—could it be that the Ye clan’s dominance had finally reached its twilight?

At the lower seats, Ye Songdu masked his growing anxiety with hollow smiles, frequently glancing toward the hall's entrance. The lines etched by time on his brow glistened with cold sweat.

Turning his gaze upward, he saw Ye Rong seated coldly on the throne. Her head slightly bowed, her expression concealed. The nine-phoenix crown adorning her head glimmered faintly, its pendants swaying gently. Her long lashes cast deep shadows under her eyes, veiling all emotions.

Suddenly, the vermilion doors of the grand hall swung open, ushering in a blast of icy air.

In strode Mo Qiehuai, clad in silver armor stained with patches of dried blood, the metallic sheen catching the flickering candlelight. His features, sharp as if drawn with meticulous strokes, radiated a lethal allure, like a sword unsheathed.

Upon seeing him, Roga’s eyes brightened instantly, and he held his breath, suppressing the tumultuous emotions welling within him. Beneath his robe, his hand trembled slightly.

Meanwhile, Ye Songdu struggled to suppress the chill creeping over him, forcing himself to maintain composure.

“Your servant brings a gift for Her Majesty,” Mo Qiehuai announced, his tone steady.

The hall fell into a deathly silence as the ministers instinctively sensed danger in the air.

Mo Qiehuai’s lips curved into a faint smile, revealing teeth like a predator’s. He set a brocade box in the center of the hall. As the lid was lifted, the stench of blood and death wafted through the air.

The gathered officials gasped softly. Ye Songdu’s face turned ashen, drained of all color.

Roga’s lips, however, curled into a visible smile, unrestrained and unhidden.

“What is it?”

Ye Rong, seated calmly on the throne, tilted her head slightly, her tone serene. The jewels dangling by her cheeks swayed gently, casting flickering shadows. The faint golden flames reflected in her eyes remained cold and indifferent.

“What gift could so astonish the court?” she inquired lightly.

“Your Majesty!!!”

Ye Songdu staggered to his feet, stumbling to the steps below the dais, his hoarse voice rising in a wail.

“Duke, what is the matter?”

Appearing genuinely puzzled, Ye Rong’s slender fingers gripped the armrest lightly. Her tone remained gentle and composed.

“Your Majesty! Mo Qiehuai has presented the severed heads of Marquis Kesuo and Marquis Fengming!” Ye Songdu knelt on the crimson carpet, his pallid face contorted with furious despair, his vision blurred with unshed tears. “Your Majesty, though blind in sight, must not let your heart be blinded as well. You must seek justice for our Ye clan!”

“Rise, Duke, and speak plainly,” Roga interjected from his throne, his gaze turning to the woman seated beside him.

Her faint fragrance mingled with a wisp of melancholy. Her features, serene as a still autumn pool, revealed no trace of anger, resentment, or any other emotion—only a misty, enigmatic depth.

Unable to endure the sight, Roga averted his eyes. Turning back to Ye Songdu, his tone was unhurried, each word drawn out and devoid of emotion.

“They were executed under my decree. Kesuo was corrupt, driving the people of Lingzhou to despair, while Fengming colluded with northern invaders in treasonous schemes. Do I, as Emperor, not have the authority to punish them?”

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“An accusation requires no justification when the Emperor wills it!” Ye Songdu’s voice quivered, his head still bowed low.

For the first time, he truly saw the boy who had once sat upon the dragon throne transformed into a ruler exuding a dangerous aura. The Emperor’s cold, arrogant gaze pierced him, stripping away all illusions.

The tide had turned irrevocably.

Abruptly, Ye Rong rose, her movements graceful. Offering a polite bow, she said, “I am feeling unwell and must excuse myself.”

Without waiting for Roga’s reply, Hedu had already stepped forward to assist her down the steps.

Suddenly, Ye Songdu grasped at her legs with his frail hands, clinging desperately.

“Your Majesty!!! Will you abandon the Ye clan to ruin? When the lips are gone, the teeth will grow cold—surely you must see...”

Standing at the center of the hall, Mo Qiehuai let out a derisive laugh at Ye Songdu’s pitiful display. He stepped forward to pull the old man away but halted as Ye Rong bent down.

Her brows knitted, lips pressed into a slight line, and in the eyes of all, she exuded an air of forlorn resignation.

“Duke, please don’t,” she said softly. Her sightless eyes, glossy yet devoid of focus, seemed to look through him and beyond. Her pale hand, emerging from her dark sleeve, rested gently on his shoulder. In a voice only he could hear, she murmured,

“Duke, do you remember? The first rule of the Ye clan: never kill one’s kin.”

Ye Songdu stared at her, stupefied. The flickering candlelight cast shifting shadows across her face. Her lips moved, releasing venomous words in a tone of disarmingly gentle cadence.

His disbelief deepened as her icy voice resonated through him.

And then, as though sensing Mo Qiehuai’s gaze, Ye Rong turned her sightless eyes toward him.

The feline-like eyes gazed intently at her, while she merely let a faint smile linger before turning back to say something to Ye Songdu. He only shook his head in response. Her pupils shifted slightly, and the fleeting trace of a smile vanished, replaced by an unreadable expression that made Mo Qiehuai instinctively wary.

The resonant drum music within the hall continued unabated, drowning out her voice.

Yet, standing so close, Ye Songdu heard every word. The chill wind whistled through the grand hall, its sound sharpening the contrast between the brilliant lights and gilded splendor, which only amplified the cold emanating from her striking yet shrouded visage.

“And so, I merely imitated you, borrowing the blade of another to kill. My eyes may be blind, but my heart sees clearly. Don’t you agree, Duke?”

“I have never regretted poisoning Xie Liulan,” Ye Songdu replied with a bitter laugh. “But, Your Grace, I must warn you—our deaths may grant you control over the Ye clan, but beware of wounding its very roots.”

His laughter was tinged with despair as his trembling body struggled upright. Glancing around the hall, he saw the gathered officials avoiding his gaze, their expressions filled with unease.

“I would not have acted without preparation, Duke. Rest easy and depart in peace.”

“Ah… so it was I who was blind, all along... blind...” He murmured, almost entranced, as he staggered toward the great doors, his eyes growing wild with a deranged light.

Then, suddenly, he hurled himself against the carved dragon pillar. Blood oozed from his shattered ceremonial crown, dyeing his snowy hair and pale face in crimson. Yet, strangely, there was still a faint smile on his lips as he collapsed lifeless to the ground.

The music ceased abruptly.

Hedu stepped forward, pressing his fingers to Ye Songdu’s neck before rising to report coldly:

“Your Grace, the Duke has died by striking the pillar.”

The dragon carvings upon the pillar were now stained a deep red, each scale shimmering eerily in the flickering light, as though alive.

The vermilion hue seeped slowly, carrying the warmth of fire, the form of tears, and the color of blood. Spreading, it tainted the black brick floor with a rose-like brilliance—yet it bore no fragrance, only a faint metallic tang that lingered in the air.

Roga let out a faint scoff as he rose from his throne. Striding over, he encircled Ye Rong in his arms. His face was a storm of conflicting emotions as he stared at Ye Songdu’s corpse. After a long pause, he spoke to her with a hint of concern:

“Are you all right?”

A surge of emotion roiled in her chest as Ye Rong gently pulled herself out of his grasp.

“I am unwell,” she said quietly. “I request to withdraw.”

“Wait!”

She had just taken a step when a graceful voice rang out—it was Su Qingfu’s. Roga stiffened instantly.

Beside him, Mo Qiehuai narrowed his feline-like eyes, amusement flickering across his face as though enjoying the spectacle.

“Mother? Why have you come here?”

Su Qingfu’s jade ornaments swayed as she stepped forward, her expression as dark as storm clouds beneath her jeweled finery.

Surrounded by Consorts Wu and Fu, she took the seat of honor with a sweep of her sleeve.

The entire hall fell into a hushed tension, the courtiers wide-eyed, breath held, watching the drama escalate.

Consort Wu, quick to understand, approached Roga with measured steps, presenting a sealed container in her hands.

Opening it, she revealed a delicate straw effigy pierced with silver needles.

Su Qingfu fixed her sharp gaze on Roga, her eyes gleaming with cold intent.

“Your Majesty, this was discovered in the Empress’s Ningye Palace, bearing my birthdate. I await your judgment on how to address this treachery.”

A murmur of shock rippled through the court.

Witchcraft—a taboo within the imperial family—and the Empress Dowager’s recent illness seemed damning. It appeared the Empress’s fate was sealed.

“Your Majesty, will you allow this woman to plot my demise?” Su Qingfu demanded, her stern demeanor radiating unbridled fury.

The oppressive silence in the hall grew thicker. No one dared to breathe audibly.

Roga’s mind reeled, though his expression remained calm. With a faint smile, he replied:

“Mother, such matters require careful investigation. There is no conclusive evidence as of yet.”

As he spoke, Roga subtly clasped Ye Rong’s hand. Perhaps it was the prolonged exposure to the open hall doors, but a chill seemed to seep from her touch, sinking into his very bones.

They both felt the cold.

“What more evidence do you need?” Su Qingfu countered sharply. “This was found in Ningye Palace.”

Her hand rested on the armrest, and her keen eyes didn’t miss their clandestine intimacy. Her expression darkened as she gave a hollow smile, the fine lines around her eyes deepening. Though her voice softened, an unmistakable malice underpinned her words.

At last, Ye Rong lifted her head. In a voice as faint as a whisper, she murmured into Roga’s ear:

“So impatient—couldn’t wait even a moment longer.”

Her flawless, porcelain face flushed faintly as she suddenly turned, only to stumble into his arms as Roga pulled her back with a firm grip.

She struggled weakly, her gaze lifting slightly. The pearls cascading from her phoenix crown shimmered like flowing water, framing her obsidian eyes, which now burned with unveiled hatred.

“Is this performance meant for the court? Perhaps I should retire directly to the Cold Palace to ease your troubles.”

Roga’s fingers tightened around her wrist, his composure finally breaking as he spoke in a low, icy tone:

“Enough.”

Su Qingfu, seated at the head of the hall, flung her sleeve in fury, knocking over the wine on the table. The liquid spilled in rivulets along the surface, eventually soaking the elaborately embroidered sleeve adorned with opulent peonies. The delicate fabric turned a soft pink as the wine seeped through, but she paid it no mind. Raising her voice sharply, she commanded:

“Bring them in.”

A servant escorted a limping figure into the hall—a palace worker whose eyes were covered with white cloth.

“Tell His Majesty what you witnessed in Ningye Palace that day!”

The palace worker fell to his knees before Roga, trembling as he spoke in a quivering voice:

“Your servant saw the Empress performing witchcraft that day. It was for this reason she blinded me. Your Majesty, I beg you to investigate!”

“Your Majesty,” interjected Consort Wu, her ethereal beauty marred by a sinister smile. “Though she is the Empress, plotting against the Empress Dowager is a crime that cannot be forgiven.”

Roga glanced at the kneeling figure, and a spark of recognition flashed through his mind. He recalled the day he had seen this servant kneeling amidst the shattered fragments in Ningye Palace.

A wave of doubt swept over him, clouding his judgment. His eyes flickered toward Ye Rong, and with great reluctance, he loosened his grip on her hand.

As his warmth slipped away, something heavy pressed against Ye Rong’s heart. It weighed her down, making it difficult to breathe.

For Roga, it felt as though invisible threads coiled around him, soft yet unyielding, preventing him from pulling away. It was as if an incantation had been etched into his very bones—stay, though he could not; let go, though it pained him.

Hesitation upon hesitation.

“Your Majesty,” a soft yet languid voice interrupted unexpectedly, breaking the silence. It was Consort Fu, standing behind Su Qingfu.

The gathered officials turned their gazes toward Fu Taifu, whose furrowed brows and inscrutable expression gave nothing away.

“Your Majesty, the evidence and testimony are clear.” Su Qingfu’s voice, slow and deliberate, sliced through the air as she shot a piercing glare at Consort Fu. Fixing her gaze on Roga, she continued with biting emphasis, “Will you still shield her?”

Roga turned to exchange a glance with Mo Qiehuai, who responded with a faint, almost imperceptible smile and a subtle nod.

“Guards…”

Roga’s icy voice reverberated through the hall.

Mo Qiehuai gazed at Ye Rong, a flicker of obsession hidden deep within his eyes.

Su Qingfu’s eyes burned with restrained hatred as they bore into Ye Rong.

Consort Wu smirked, her expression filled with gleeful malice.

Consort Fu’s eyes gleamed with cold calculation.

Fu Taifu exhaled softly, as if relieved.

And there Ye Rong stood, dressed in solemn black, her beauty so striking it seemed almost otherworldly under the faint candlelight. The glow cast an ethereal sheen over her, as though she were a mirage, distant and untouchable.

Though she stood so near, Roga felt an insurmountable chasm between them. She seemed farther away than ever, beyond his reach. A powerful urge surged within him to take her into his arms, but the chains of responsibility and duty weighed heavily on him. Immobilized, he could only stand there, motionless, watching her.

“Take the Empress to the Cold Palace…”

“Urgh…”

Before the guards could step forward, Ye Rong swayed and collapsed, retching violently onto the floor.

“Your Grace! What’s wrong? Your Grace!”

Hedu rushed to her side, panic lacing his voice as he tried to steady her.

She convulsed in dry heaves, yet pushed away Hedu's supporting arm.

She waited. Waited for Roga to step forward.

Would he come? Would he hold her in his arms?

But he didn’t. All she could feel was his steady gaze fixed upon her, silent and unmoving.

And what did that gaze mean? She knew all too well.

“What are you standing there for? Call the royal physician!”

Consort Fu’s sharp command cut through the air, her tone unbothered by propriety. As her eyes swept the room and landed on the woman slumped on the floor, she caught sight of Ye Rong’s face—haggard from her retching, yet carrying a bewitching smile, sinister and vibrant like the blossoms along the Naihe Bridge.

A pang of unease gripped Consort Fu, making her bite her lip as she hastily looked away, not daring to meet that gaze again. She opened her mouth to say more but fell silent at the sound of Su Qingfu’s cold snort. The weight of the Dowager Empress’s displeasure silenced her, leaving her pale and wordless.

Night deepened, and the chill of winter lingered.

Ye Songdu’s body had been quietly removed, and the dense aroma of burning sandalwood filled the hall. The mingling scents of incense and blood created a heady mixture, sweet yet metallic, like flowers blooming in the hollows of old bones, curling and ensnaring all within its reach.

The bright candlelight illuminated Su Qingfu’s face, casting shadows that rendered her expression cold and unreadable. Her piercing gaze cut across the assembly and settled on Ye Rong, lingering in silence.

No.

No.

It couldn’t be this quick.

In her lifelong battle with the Ye clan, she had almost lost everything—an unattainable infatuation, her father and brothers, even the best years of her youth, buried under the weight of her obsession.

Now, with the fall of the Ye clan finally within reach...

No. It couldn’t be.

The Ye clan couldn’t always be so fortunate.

Taking a deep breath, she quelled the rage swelling within her chest, tapping her fingers twice against the huanghuali wood table. Her voice, when it came, was restrained yet commanding.

“Summon Physician Li.”

“Escort the Empress to the inner chamber,” Roga’s voice finally broke through the tension, though the unfamiliar detachment in his tone sent a shiver of unease through Ye Rong’s heart.

In the inner chamber of the Taiji Hall, bronze cranes exhaled thin streams of mist, their smoke curling languidly into the air.

The noble Emperor and the ornately dressed Dowager Empress sat with an air of distant authority upon their chairs. Smoke and shadows shrouded their expressions, obscuring any glimpse of their true thoughts.

Behind the Emperor stood Mo Qiehuai, his feline eyes lingering on Ye Rong with a flicker of wavering tenderness. Yet, the dried bloodstains on his silver armor betrayed the cruel indifference behind that fleeting softness.

The bedposts, carved with coiling dragons, were draped with emerald gauze that shimmered in the candlelight, like rippling waves catching silver reflections.

Reclining against an embroidered beauty’s pillow, Ye Rong’s jade-like face was pale, her obsidian eyes seeming unnaturally fixed. Reaching out, she brushed aside the disheveled strands clinging to her forehead. A faint, icy smile lingered on her lips as she calmly offered her wrist to Physician Li.

Physician Li knelt by the footrest, his hand resting on her pulse for a long moment before he withdrew. His expression, once composed, now carried an unspoken weight. Rising, he turned to kneel before Roga and Su Qingfu, his voice steady yet laden with significance.

“Your Majesty, Dowager Empress, congratulations. The Empress is one month with child.”

A stunned silence fell over the chamber, so profound that even the faintest sound could have echoed endlessly.

Only the gentle flicker of a solitary lamp filled the space, its dim light swaying in the stillness.

The woman on the bed let her rigid posture soften, curling languidly into the cushions. Her dark eyes, half-lidded, seemed unfocused, staring at nothing in particular. Yet, the smile spreading across her lips reached her eyes, glowing with an almost ethereal beauty. She resembled a manjusaka blossom, crimson and enchanting, its threads unfurling in a mesmerizing dance.

Roga felt a sharp pain in his chest, as though something within him was on the verge of shattering. Hidden beneath his dragon-embroidered sleeve, his hand clenched tightly, the sharp sting grounding him, preventing any trace of emotion from escaping.

Consort Wu, lacking such restraint, almost lunged forward, clutching Su Qingfu’s sleeve. Her delicate face was streaked with tears, a picture of despair.

“Dowager Empress, please…” she began, but her voice faltered under Su Qingfu’s icy gaze. The older woman’s face betrayed no emotion, her focus fixed on a distant point. After a moment, seeing that Consort Wu dared not continue, she turned her sharp gaze toward her. Her voice, calm yet firm, broke the tension.

“It’s fine. It’s fine.”

In the end, this was the only response. Su Qingfu felt a bitter laugh rise in her throat, one that threatened to turn into uncontrollable hysteria. But she swallowed it down, her icy composure unwavering.

Turning her gaze to Roga, who appeared equally stunned, she spoke slowly, her words seemingly unrelated:

“Your Majesty, while the traitor Ye Songdu has been punished, many others remain implicated. What do you propose we do next?”

Roga’s lips moved faintly, as though struggling to form words, before murmuring, “Qiehuai, what do you think?”

Mo Qiehuai, who had been watching silently, lowered his playful gaze and bent slightly in a gesture of deference.

Across the chamber, Ye Rong trembled, her dark eyes turning toward him. Her gaze, though silent, seemed to carry a wordless plea.

Is she begging me?

Amused by the thought, Mo Qiehuai’s cat-like eyes curved in satisfaction. Smiling, he replied to Roga, “Your Majesty, those implicated must not escape justice. However, today is the Empress’s birthday, and with the imperial heir now in her womb, excessive bloodshed would be unwise. After all... the sins should not extend to the innocent.”

“Very well. Then I leave this matter to you and the Grand Preceptor.”

“I accept the decree,” Mo Qiehuai replied with a bow.

As he stepped back, his eyes met Su Qingfu’s intense gaze. She scrutinized him closely, yet he responded with an audacious smile before turning away.

His armor clinked sharply with each step, the metallic sound echoing through the chamber. But as he walked, his expression darkened, the playful air vanishing. His eyes, now like glacial blades, reflected nothing but ruthless determination.