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A jade throne stood on the high platform.
The Ghost King sat upright.
There was no radiance around him, yet all light bent almost imperceptibly when it passed near his body.
He spoke. His voice was not loud, but it was like a millstone grinding over rough bluestone, carving grooves into the frozen space. "Chen Hong, that little girl of yours has nailed my Wujian to the pillar of shame."
Chen Hong felt a dull ache at the roots of his teeth.
The master before him had lived a full hundred and fifty years, and he had old grudges and entanglements with his Grandmaster, Zhang Xiaofan.
He could only force out a polite smile and lower his voice. "Senior Ghost King, that is too serious... This truly was unexpected. Xiao Yi really was the only one on the team left who could fight... It was a coincidence."
The Ghost King lifted his eyelids slightly. His abyss-deep gaze swept across Chen Hong's face, carrying neither joy nor anger. "This old man has always cared only about results. Since I fell today, I will accept this fate."
His words were flat, with no raging fury at all.
Around them, the eyes of several Titled Your Majesties, such as Yu Yongyuan and Long Jing'an, shifted slightly, and even their little motions of lifting tea and straightening their clothes became a bit more deliberate.
Accept his fate? That was what he said, but everyone at this level understood it in their hearts—the schedule had indeed been officially arranged, and the original intention had been for Wujian, this powerful team, to pinch Chang'an, this "soft persimmon." Who could have expected this result? One person crushing seven. The Ghost King had lost far too much