As Amon's words fell, the air throughout Xingshen Temple instantly dropped to freezing point.
The veins stood out on the back of Fuma Kotaro's hand where it rested on his knee, his knuckles cracking as he clenched them tight. His face was livid, his eyes burning with barely suppressed rage. Sakurai Nanami's slender fingers curled beneath her sleeve, her gaze behind the lenses sharp as needles. Even Ryoma Genichiro, who had seemed as though all the life had been drained out of him, suddenly straightened his back, a wolfish gleam flashing in his eyes. The smile vanished completely from Inuyama He's face, his lips tightening into a hard, cold line.
Tachibana Masamune slowly set down his teacup. Its base struck the stone table with a crisp clink.
Caesar and Chu Zihang had already silently tensed every muscle, like bows drawn taut, ready at any moment for the Eight Clans of the Serpent to erupt into violence.
Finn shrank his neck, wishing he could bury himself inside the tatami.
Lu Mingfei sucked in a sharp breath. Senior Brother is trying to kill the conversation!
Calling their combat strength "dogs pulling a sled"—wasn't that the same as calling the Japan Branch a pack of dogs? No matter how much you looked down on them, you couldn't just say it to their faces, could you?
And this wasn't a pack of Alaskans or Samoyeds. These people were yakuza. They really would pour someone into a concrete pillar and toss them into Tokyo Bay.
Yet at this knife-edge moment, Tachibana Masamune raised a hand, stopping Fuma Kotaro, who was nearly about to make a move.
Then he turned toward Amon and lowered his head deeply.
The motion was slow and heavy, as if it bore the weight of the entire Eight Clans of the