Su Ming stood where he was, watching Shen Fei return to the Sacred Family's group, then turned and retreated into the shadows of the corridor.
He leaned against a pillar, took the ring off his finger, and clasped it in his palm, rubbing his thumb over its smooth face several times.
He leaned against the cold lacquered wooden pillar, his lower back pressed against it. His fingers tightened around the ring, its edge digging into the flesh of his palm and leaving a faint red mark.
He looked up at the people still seated in the courtyard. His gaze swept over the wine cup Huyan Lie had never brought to his lips, the two elders of the Wind Snow Family sitting half an inch away from their chair backs, and the fingers of Xiao Yunfeng, head of the Winged Dragon Family, hanging below the table's edge. He had not understood those details before. Now he understood them all.
Everyone was waiting. Everyone was ready. Whatever lay coiled in the air could explode at any moment.
Su Ming lowered his head and looked at his brand-new light armor.
The plates gleamed iron-gray beneath the lantern light. The dark red protective cloth over his chest had only been sewn on that morning, its stitches fine and close, painstakingly finished by the old tailor in camp.
Standing here in this armor, he had thought he counted as somebody. But in this courtyard, his silver 3-star cultivation did not even measure up to the corner of a table.
When he had scanned the gathering earlier, he had already sensed several unfathomably deep auras. Their pressure made his chest tighten, and even the faint ripples at their edges had drawn a sheen of cold sweat across his back.
He had no idea who would fight