Unlike the jubilant bustle at the Military Administration Department, the atmosphere at Right Wing King He Zheng's residence was so oppressive it was suffocating.
The sunlight at the horizon was glaring, almost excessively bright. It should have been a scene of spring warmth, blooming flowers, and vibrant life, yet because of the old man in the square, it had become overcast, filled with gloom and grief-stricken fury.
Two groups stood facing each other in the square, with a transparent, jar-shaped device laid between them. He Zheng looked at his son lying inside the device. His aged face shifted from stunned bewilderment to disbelief, from overwhelming grief to savage rage. It was hard to imagine that a person could undergo so many changes of expression in such a brief instant.
Ai Xi had always been a kind-hearted girl. Even though she hated He Xuan to the bone, she had not taken revenge through any cruel torture or execution. She had merely pierced his heart with a sword. He Xuan's corpse was not frightening now; he simply looked as though he were asleep.
He Zheng's reaction was understandable. A white-haired man sending off his black-haired son—and the son he had painstakingly raised for over two thousand years, no less. At a time like this, what composure or restraint could anyone possibly maintain?
Seeing the old man across from them, who had aged so much in an instant, one could not help feeling sorry for him.
Sorry for him? No, He Zheng was not pitiful in the slightest. You reaped what you sowed. A man like him, always plotting and scheming against others, deserved this. He needed to experience firsthand the truth that if you didn't court death, you wouldn't die.
"It was you, wasn't it? You killed my Xuan'er!!"
He Zheng stared