Under the gazes of Zhou Ping, Shen Qingzhu, and Lin Qiye, An Qingyu maintained that posture for several seconds before slowly withdrawing his hand.
He set the chopsticks on the lunchbox, his expression returning to its usual calm.
"Then do it."
Silence.
The howling cold wind of the desert swept past the Sword Pavilion like a roaring beast, whipping wildly through the darkness.
Beside the flickering stove, the four figures sat like clay statues, not speaking a word.
Zhou Ping looked at An Qingyu beside him. There was not the slightest trace of hesitation on the latter's face, as if he had already resigned himself to his fate.
Lin Qiye and Shen Qingzhu sat where they were, feeling disappointed, angry, and confused... but in this Sword Pavilion, neither of them had the right to decide whether An Qingyu lived or died.
Here, the only one who could determine An Qingyu's life or death was Zhou Ping.
If the sword came out, An Qingyu would die; if the sword remained sheathed, An Qingyu would live... everything depended solely on Zhou Ping's heart.
Zhou Ping looked into An Qingyu's eyes. In those pure, clear-water-like pupils was an unprecedented disappointment... At that moment, even Zhou Ping, the sword immortal who could erase even a Supreme with a single strike, suddenly seemed far more haggard.
In silence, he picked up two broken wooden chopsticks of uneven lengths and shoveled a few mouthfuls of rice into his mouth. As he chewed, the rims of his eyes uncontrollably reddened.
After an unknown amount of time, he finally spoke indistinctly.
"...Eat."
The strand of Sword Intent drifting around An Qingyu's neck gradually dissipated.
By then, An Qingyu's back was already soaked with cold sweat, and his tense body finally relaxed.
He picked up the chopsticks and empty