Like a taut string suddenly snapping, like a song cut off just as it reached its climax, like a galloping horse abruptly reined in.
Wu Laoer's voice vanished.
His mouth hung open, frozen in the posture of someone about to speak.
His hand remained extended in midair, poised to point and gesture.
His eyes were still wide open, holding the fierce glare he wore when he was about to utter threats.
But he no longer moved.
Not at all.
Like a corpse.
And not just him.
The other five assassins were the same.
Some were about to draw their blades, hands gripping the hilts; some were about to turn, bodies half-twisted; some were about to speak, lips slightly parted...
They had all been frozen in that instant, like a painting fixed in place, like a play with its pause button pressed.
Time had stopped.
Or rather, time had not stopped, but their time had.
Bao Xiaoqin frowned.
She sensed it.
A strand of sharp sword qi had swept across the entire rear courtyard in an instant.
That sword strike had come swiftly and gone swiftly, like lightning on a summer night—gone in a flash, leaving only the faintest trace of killing intent in the air.
The killing intent was so faint that it would have been overlooked without careful attention.
But once noticed, it felt like the tip of a needle, making one's skin tighten.
In that flash of lightning, Bao Xiaoqin's breath caught for an instant.
Then she could not help calling softly, "Young Master, is that you?"
She did not call Hu Yulou by name.
Because she knew that sudden sword strike did not carry Hu Yulou's aura.
Hu Yulou's sword was like a blazing fire, like red-hot iron. Every strike carried the resolve to perish together with