False Books Piled High, Blood Shadows Reflected; Old Royal Merits Shine on Lingering Souls

"Your Majesty, this minister was late in delivering the grain."

Zhao Cheng swung down from his horse, his black boots striking the bluestone slabs before Wangyue Post Station with a dull thud. The dark-red cloak around him swept down with the motion, brushing over the congealed dark-red blood staining his armor.

Those blood crusts had long since turned black, yet the savage paths they had traced when they splattered were still visible.

He bowed solemnly in salute, his voice steady as a boulder, without the slightest hint of panic.

Ying Zheng sat beneath the post station's eaves, rolling a Jade Ring between his fingertips as he studied Zhao Cheng.

They had not met for more than a month, yet the boy seemed to have grown again. His shoulders and back had become broader, his body encased in black armor like a mountain harboring thunder.

The moment he stood there, it was as though all the light around him had been swallowed up. Even the sunlight beneath the eaves seemed to dim by several degrees.

The Killing Intent around him was heavier than when Handan had fallen—a deep, oppressive aura steeped from mountains of corpses and seas of blood. Merely standing there quietly made people feel as though they could barely breathe.

It was as if the figure before them was not one man, but the entire Blood-Clad Army that had crushed Han and Zhao beneath its feet.

Ying Zheng watched him for a long while before slowly raising his hand to point at the prison cart outside the post station.

There, Lord Changping was bound to a wooden frame with coarse hemp ropes. His once-splendid brocade robes had long been soaked through with blood, sticking to his flesh.

Whip marks crisscrossed his back, some so deep that bone was visible.