Tang San's Trump Card

Night shrouded Spirit City. Most of the streets had fallen silent, and only in an unremarkable hotel in the west of the city were the lights still on in a few rooms.

In the suite on the top floor, the atmosphere was grave.

Yu Xiaogang stood before the window, his back to the others in the room.

Moonlight spilled through the window lattice and over him, outlining a figure so slender it was almost frail.

Beneath his deep-blue robe, his waist was drawn in with unusual clarity, and the lines that had once been firm and resolute now seemed soft.

When he raised a hand to tidy the loose hair at his temples, the movement of his fingers carried an unconscious gentleness—this was a subtle change brought about after taking the Soul Sculpting Pill, one even he himself had yet to fully adapt to.

"Teacher, do you think there's anything else that needs adjusting in tomorrow's tactics?"

Tang San's voice rang out, a little clearer than before, with less of a youth's hoarseness and more warmth.

He sat by the table in a plain white robe, his black hair falling like a waterfall to his waist. His face was as delicate as porcelain; the heroic air between his brows had not diminished, yet it formed a strange harmony with his softened features.

Yu Xiaogang turned around. The face that had once been sharp and angular now had softened, his skin fair and smooth. If not for the wisdom and hardships accumulated over many years in his eyes, one might almost have mistaken him for a cold beauty with a unique bearing.

"The tactics have already been run through many times."

Yu Xiaogang's voice remained steady and powerful, yet for some reason it carried a trace of cool detachment. "Xiao San,