A few drops of dark red stained the slightly flashy orange cuff, looking very much like blood after a brief spell of oxidation—or like an accidental spill while drinking.
That was right. Just as he'd been confident he could mix a drink that looked like blood, Fu Qian was equally confident that, with an ordinary human constitution, he couldn't tell at a glance whether it was real or fake.
Clear self-awareness was a human virtue.
Blood, wine, or blood and wine—Fu Qian had never been so disrespectful of professional expertise as to identify them at a glance based on such a tiny trace.
Although, from a layman's perspective, it seemed possible to reach a few conclusions—
As the special guest, Fu Qian's abrupt movement naturally drew everyone's attention, including the person involved.
When Batters followed his gaze and realized what Fu Qian was looking at, he jerked his hand back as if electrocuted.
Rustle—
He'd even damaged his carefully prepared outfit by pulling back too hard.
That was such a classic reaction that it perfectly embodied the phrase "a guilty conscience."
Out of the corner of his eye, Fu Qian saw the other two holding their breath. The air in the whole room felt thick and frozen.
Fu Qian wasn't the sort to let the atmosphere bother him. For a moment, he simply regarded Batters with interest. He wasn't even looking at his hand, but at the mop of blond hair on his head.
They said that when people were badly frightened, their hair stood on end one strand at a time. Today, Fu Qian was witnessing a perfect demonstration.
It hadn't gone so far as to change Batters' hairstyle, but his smooth blond hair was visibly becoming less smooth by the second.
"Looks like you got your sleeve dirty