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In the predawn hours of the Ye Manor, the chubby Ye Feipeng slept soundly, a faint smile on his lips as though his dreams were especially pleasant.
He had no awareness of the dark figure that materialized beside his bed.
The figure waved a hand, and Ye Feipeng's head lolled to the side, sinking into deep, unconscious sleep.
The figure's right hand curled into a claw and came to rest atop the boy's head.
A moment later, it slowly withdrew.
In the figure's palm sat a single thick drop of essence blood, so dark it was nearly black.
Ye Feipeng, whose face had been flushed and healthy, immediately went wan and feeble, as though he had been struck by a sudden, severe illness.
The globule of blood seemed alive, possessed of its own will. It writhed and squirmed against the figure's palm, straining...
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