Like many hot-blooded young men, Shi Qingjue had dreamed cruel dreams. But he was a normal person, and in those dreams, he rarely dwelled on the details of the cruelty itself. What thrilled him most was the terror it inspired in the crowd—and the heady rush of standing above them all.
The torment before his eyes was real. Gao Yang barely had the strength left to cry out. His burly limbs were as brittle as rotten wood in Fang Shuyi's hands; the slightest touch snapped them in two.
Shi Qingjue was trembling all over, not with fear but with excitement. His hand was tightening, and he could feel just how easily Zhang Ji's neck would give way. Just a little more pressure...
He didn't dare imagine it, but his grip kept tightening all the same.
Zhang Ji remained composed, as if he had long since made peace with death. Only his face had reddened, and his eyes bulged slightly.
One of the drinkers mustered the courage to warn him. "Kid, if you kill the sect leader, you two are as good as dead."
Shi Qingjue loosened his grip a little and recited a list of names in a trembling voice. "Zen Master Fa Chong, Zen Master Faxing..." There were more than a hundred names in all. The drinkers listened in bafflement, thinking he had been scared out of his wits. "That's all," Shi Qingjue said, finishing the list at a furious pace. "I'll write down the names of everyone on that list, and there's no one else. Brother Gao had nothing to do with this. He doesn't know anything. Let him go."
"Someone held hostage has no right to be sect leader," Zhang Ji said coldly. "How can I give orders in this state?"
Shi Qingjue was on the verge