"Wei River runs cold through the Ancient Imperial City..."
In the grand hall, the operatic tune rang out once again, yet this time, the singing lacked sincerity and soul. The two actors onstage moved stiffly, voices trembling,
and those playing the erhu and beating the drums all appeared panic-stricken, their rhythms in disarray—so off that even Gu Zhan, an outsider, could hear something was wrong.
But Gu Zhan didn't care,
leaned back on his chair, as if deeply entranced by the performance,
while beside him lay Gu Yuanzhong's corpse,
The body streamed with blood, too gruesome to behold. Limbs shattered, neck snapped, slumped like a heap of rotten mud in the chair, his face twisted in a savage grimace, blood still oozing from the corners of his mouth.
At this moment, outside the hall,
all of the Gu Mansion's swordsmen were already in chaos,
each and every one of them disoriented, leaderless,
