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Sizzle, sizzle, sizzle! The sharp hiss of raw flesh hitting a hot pan tore through the still darkness of the chamber. Ye Lianhan’s fists clenched tightly, his entire body trembling on the edge of collapse under the excruciating pain.
A grey metal mask, etched with crescent-shaped patterns, had been seared red-hot and was now slowly pressed onto his disfigured face. It fused to his ruined flesh with a sickening finality, never to be removed again.
A few days earlier, the Tang Emperor had summoned the former Saintess and Wolf God of the Phantom Camp. He told them he had survived an assassination attempt.
The Saintess and the Wolf God, both fully aware of the truth, felt a chill run down their spines as they stood before the inscrutable emperor. His words, delivered with calm indifference, were as good as an accusation.
Ye Lianhan isn’t dead. He came for me. And you knew. You said nothing. What punishment do you deserve?
As they fell to their knees, preparing to plead guilty, the Tang Emperor waved a hand and said lightly, "The assassin is dead. We don’t know who he was. Go on, be good citizens of Tang."
Neither dared to breathe too loudly, let alone speak. But as they retreated from the imperial hall, a wave of relief washed over them. They had walked away from the edge of the abyss.
Ye Lianhan, his face destroyed, had died once already.
Then...
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