It was the small hours of the morning.
Inside the dungeon's torture chamber, interrogation of the captured prisoners continued. Guo Zhaowu and officials from the various departments watched through the night, waiting for developments.
Elsewhere, outside the cell holding Tuoba Zhe alone, Chief Constable Shen Cang stood guard at the door with his saber at his waist. After the long wait, he was growing a little drowsy.
Inside, Tuoba Zhe leaned against the wall with his eyes closed, resting. He appeared utterly unruffled, but in truth, he too was waiting for news from outside. Chu Xing knew enough, after all. If those outside adapted quickly enough, success was not beyond them, and as an envoy from the Western Regions, he might even receive a special pardon afterward.
As he pondered this, a faint sound suddenly came from the cell entrance, as though someone were peering inside.
Tuoba Zhe instinctively glanced toward the iron door, only to find himself looking straight into a pair of eyes.
The eyes were large, brimming with spiritual vitality and a pressure that looked down upon the mortal world, like a dragon god perched atop verdant mountains, gazing down at the ants beneath its feet.
Tuoba Zhe did not know where this feeling came from, but the instant he met that gaze, he became as wooden as a carved chicken before he could even feel fear. Then a tearing headache erupted in his mind, and scenes began flashing before him like a revolving lantern.
But those scenes were neither his childhood with his parents in the Gobi Desert nor the sea of blood at Hushan where his clansmen had been slaughtered. Instead, they flashed backward in sequence: being watched by the officials, being captured in the fallen-leaf woods outside the city, meeting secretly with the higher-ups