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He Lingchuan watched Dong Rui’s retreating back and smiled faintly. “He’s actually been pretty good to me.”
Steward Zhao looked utterly baffled. “That counts as good?” That Dong fellow hadn’t once shown his face properly, hadn’t said a single kind word, and avoided Young Master He like he was dodging a plague god. And that’s pretty good? Young Master He’s standards for “good” are… not exactly demanding.
“You don’t understand.” He Lingchuan’s gaze lingered where Dong Rui had vanished into the trees. “Dong Rui turns on people faster than turning a page. But at a moment like this, the first thing he thought of was leaving rather than trying to give me a lesson. That means his hostility toward me has eased.”
That man traveled alone, came and went with absolute decisiveness. He was interesting, in his own way.
He Lingchuan turned his eyes back toward the northwest.
The Xia Province’s northern campaign on the Han River had already been over for more than half a month. He found himself thinking less and less about Xia Province and the He Family.
Even though danger lurked everywhere inside the Demon Nest, he had felt as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. The swamp stank of rotten wood and black mud, yet after breathing it long enough, even that became… bearable.
And if he did not have to betray his own heart, then he honestly did not want to go back.
Wandering alone, the world was wide. Best of all, he no longer had to keep...
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