The news spread quickly.
Eastern Yu, a lakeside lodge belonging to the Sweetwood lineage.
Yan Xiu was drinking tea. His glass cup held water from a thousand-year-old cold spring, transported from the snowy mountains of the Western Extremity. The tea's fragrance was crisp and pure, and his mood had been pleasant enough. Zang Tu had been gone for several days; by his reckoning, it was about time he returned.
What waves could an ant from the Central Lands, a mere Sixth Realm cultivator, possibly stir up?
Once the man was brought back, he would see just what abilities he possessed that had made Bai Qianqian flee a thousand miles rather than submit to him, and had even made Ji Xian seal her mountain.
Then the messenger came in.
He was a lean member of the Red Sickle Guard. The moment he entered, he dropped to his knees, trembling like chaff in a sieve.
Cold sweat dripped from his forehead onto the floor. For a long while, he dared not speak.
Yan Xiu's hand paused slightly around his teacup. He frowned, a thread of foreboding crossing his mind. "Speak."
The Red Sickle Guard's voice sounded as though it had been dredged from an ice cellar. "Young master, Lord Zang Tu... he..."
"What happened to him?"
"Lord Zang Tu was killed in battle."
The glass cup struck the white jade floor with a sharp crack. Shards flew everywhere, and tea spread swiftly across the cold jade, reflecting Yan Xiu's suddenly pale face.
All the beautiful women dropped to their knees, their foreheads almost touching the floor, silent as cicadas in the cold.
Yan Xiu stared, his voice squeezing out of his throat as though something had clamped around his neck. "What did you say?"
The messenger shook with fear, almost burying his