Old Grudge

Feng Zhuohua walked over to the table and sat down opposite Fan Jun.

Xu Wuyi did not sit. He stood beside the table, looking at this spy who had survived between the Sirius Civilization and the Federation for more than fifty years.

"Fan Jun." Feng Zhuohua spoke, his voice calm, like someone chatting with a friend.

"This is Grandmaster Xu Wuyi. You should know who he is. Our patience is limited. You've been in the interrogation room for eleven days and haven't said a single word. Do you think this means anything?"

Fan Jun said nothing. He did not even look at Feng Zhuohua. His gaze rested on the tabletop, watching his interlocked fingers as though admiring a work of art.

Feng Zhuohua waited a few seconds. Seeing no response, he nodded to Xu Wuyi.

Xu Wuyi walked up to Fan Jun and stopped less than two meters away.

He said nothing and made no unnecessary movements. He merely raised his right hand, his thoughts stirring slightly.

Within his sea of consciousness, the pale-blue Heart of Order began to slowly rotate. The power of Order surged out like a tide, spreading outward along his arm.

But this time, he did not hasten to release his domain. Instead, he condensed the power of Order into an exceedingly fine thread that extended from his palm toward Fan Jun without a sound.

He had only gradually mastered this precise manipulation after his injury. By compressing the power of Order to its utmost limit, he made it more concealed, more difficult to detect.

The instant that invisible thread touched Fan Jun, he sensed the hard shell within the other man's consciousness.

That shell was not a barrier built from spiritual power, but something deeper—a bastion of will honed through fifty years of unchanging self-suppression