"Hm? What happened?"
A brief flicker of confusion crossed Salas's mind. Riding the momentum, he smashed the desk apart again and roared, "Damn brat!"
The scene flashed. Salas found that he had once again gone from standing back to sitting.
And the desk he had smashed with his own hands had returned to its original state.
Refusing to believe it, he rose to his feet, but this time, before he even had the chance to swing his hand, he was seated back in the chair.
"Heh, heh, heh, heh. How is this possible?"
The fury in Salas's heart drained away like a flood, replaced by a chill so cold it could freeze his entire body stiff.
He slumped in the chair and began to laugh blankly, clearly unable to accept reality.
Seeing that Salas had finally "calmed down," Quan Yi spoke. "It looks like you understand your situation now. Next, it's my turn to ask the questions.
"You should know the reason and purpose behind our visit, right?"
In Salas's current state, how could he have the presence of mind to listen to what Quan Yi was saying? But even if he did not want to hear it, Quan Yi's voice rang directly through his mind like a demonic sound boring into his ears.
Dragged forcibly back to reality by that stimulus, Salas said in panic, "I don't know what you're talking about."
Quan Yi gave a soft snort and snapped his fingers.
White light flashed before Salas's eyes, and a letter carrying the scent of ink and paper appeared on the desk.
When Salas saw the letter, and the familiar handwriting recorded on it, his pupils contracted sharply.
He lifted the paper, his eyes rapidly sweeping over the contents of the letter.
He would never mistake his own handwriting.