Yan Xianjue said bluntly, "The point isn't what I think. It's how much evidence against you Lin Lang actually has."
Lin Shi gave a mocking snort. "Logically speaking, he shouldn't have been able to get any evidence."
"But who knows? That guy's luck has always been absurdly good."
Lin Shi was not exaggerating in the slightest. Compared to his own luck, it was like heaven and earth.
Yan Xianjue glanced at Lin Shi. His tone had clearly not changed, yet it somehow carried a hint of mockery.
But that mockery was not aimed at anyone. It was aimed at that intangible thing called luck.
Yan Xianjue fell silent. After a moment, he asked a question that sounded somewhat strange to all three people present. "Suppose you were a character in a book. Would you hate the author who wrote that book?"
Without giving it much thought, Lin Shi laughed. "Have you been reading too many novels?"
But after considering Yan Xianjue's words, he still shook his head. "This is reality. Even if this world really was born from some author's pen, I don't believe that pen could control everything."
Yan Xianjue froze, clearly not expecting Lin Shi to give him that answer.
He had thought that, given the depth of Lin Shi's hatred for the Lin Household and the reckless madness with which he acted, if Lin Shi learned of such a premise, he would transfer that hatred onto the author.
Yet the other man simply did not care.
That was right—he did not care. Yan Xianjue understood the meaning behind Lin Shi's words. He did not care why this world had come into being. It was fine if it was a normal world; it was equally fine if it had been created beneath a novelist's pen. It made no