A smear of black stained Sen Miao's fingertip. The liquid used to write on the ground was his own blood.
Zeng Mu approached and crouched down, studying the writing. The blood had yet to dry, but windblown sand had blurred the words slightly. They read:
"Hello. This is a preliminary gift. I was afraid you might forget me, and I don't like that. Haihui Gelin."
Reading that taunting message, Zeng Mu clenched both fists. His knuckles cracked incessantly, like the chirping of insects.
After reading the words, Felman looked at his frightening expression. Seeming to understand something, she asked calmly, "You've met this fellow who calls himself Haihui Gelin before?"
"Yes. That bastard belongs to the Soul-Returning Cult." He practically ground the words out between his teeth. He finally understood everything he had experienced over the past few days. It had all been that fellow's malicious game-a blatant humiliation.
"I see. Then he must be the one who brought Sen Miao into the Soul-Returning Cult. He might even be one of their more important emissaries."
"Was he behind all of this? When did you run into him before? Did you clash?"
She asked many questions, but Zeng Mu was in no mood to answer them. He merely waved a hand, indicating that this was not the time to talk.
"Then let's leave first. Stay at my place for a few days. The seven-day patrols imposed on the Royal City after Feng Yue's death are the strictest kind. Anyone preparing to leave is considered suspicious, and getting out requires a whole series of troublesome formalities-letters of guarantee, letters of introduction, and the like. In short, you need considerable connections and money, and you clearly lack the former. The target is already dead, so there's no reason for me to make you