"Scrape, scrape, scrape..."
Bang.
The wine cup was set heavily upon the tea table, producing a piercing sound.
Several strands of stifling wind rippled through the silent attic.
Rao Wangze sat before the table, his face and body shrouded in hazy green wind, faintly exuding impatience.
He still said nothing, merely glancing toward the gold-robed figure in a golden mask to his left. That was Huangquan.
Yes, Saint Emperor Wangze, one of the five heads of the Holy Emperor Clans, and Huangquan, foremost among Yama, the dark faction, now sat at the same tea table—an image neither had ever imagined in their lives.
"Scrape, scrape, scrape..."
Compared to the unrest displayed by Saint Emperor Wangze, Huangquan remained seated, though he appeared somewhat restrained.
He sat bolt upright—one could even call him stiff—with both hands hanging straight at his sides, without the natural curve of relaxed joints. He looked exactly like a wooden statue.
Unlike the cloudy yellow wine spilled all over Saint Emperor Wangze's table, Huangquan's cup had remained fixed in place from beginning to end. He had not touched it even once.
"Scrape, scrape, scrape..."
The sound kept ringing beside their ears. It was more unbearable, irritating, and painful than a saw cutting through flesh. "Aren't you going to say something?"
Saint Emperor Wangze slammed the table and rose, glaring fiercely at Huangquan.
Seeing that he still received no reply, he exhaled a deep breath of murky crimson wind and glanced to his right. "When may I leave this pavilion?"
Scrape, scrape, scrape...
Kong Yuhen, who looked like a jade-faced scholar, was wholly engrossed in carving a palm-sized piece of wood with a carving knife.
Upon it, the image of a middle-aged man with a rugged face, sharply defined features, and a trace of impatience between his brows