It has been several days since Qin Yuesheng slaughtered those experts sent by the Yellow Turban Immortal Sect to kill him.
During these days, Liu Xian had been living in constant fear, walking on thin ice. He was terrified that Qin Yuesheng might turn up again one day; without experts to protect him, he would be as defenseless as a persimmon, ready to be picked and squeezed at will.
The bronze censer burned fragrant incense, wisps of smoke curling upward.
Several women inside the room played pipa, guzheng, and zither, the clear and elegant melodies flowing like mountain streams and snowy spring mornings, calming everyone the more they listened.
Beside them, Liu Xian sat behind the table, his face clouded with worry, drinking continuously. The maids at his side kept refilling his cup with wine.
At that moment, aside from the sound of strings, the room was utterly quiet.
