Inside the ancestral hall, candle flames flickered, making a soft crackling sound.
No lamps were lit, and the light was dim.
The remaining glow from the horizon quietly sifted through the window lattice, casting a shadow on one side of Wei Zhao's face.
He stood tall, like pine or bamboo, maintaining a respectful gesture, hands cupped in salute, his nose straight, and lips thin and pale.
Yet due to a single sentence from him, the ancestral hall fell into an extended dead silence.
Ning Suxuan's face showed no ripples, but emotions churned like waves inside her. Her hand pressed hard on the incense table, unconsciously exerting force, causing her veins to bulge.
A soft snapping sound was heard.
Her meticulously cared-for fingernail snapped, but Ning Suxuan felt no pain, staring directly at the person in front of her, lips tightly pressed. A huge stone weighed on her heart, making it difficult for her to breathe.
No wonder...
