Xu Wuyi got up and stretched his body, stiff from holding a fixed position for a long time, before walking out of the basement.
Night had fallen. Most of the Qiao Family residence was dark, with only the study still lit.
When Xu Wuyi knocked and entered, Qiao Tongyu was standing before the window, gazing out at the night. The teacup in his hand had already grown cold.
"Uncle Qiao," Xu Wuyi called out.
Qiao Tongyu turned around. His face was unsmiling, bearing a rare, solemn expression.
"Did you win the eighth match?"
"Mhm."
"Sit." Qiao Tongyu gestured to the chair across from his desk and sat back down behind it himself. "There's something I need to tell you."
Xu Wuyi sat down. Seeing Qiao Tongyu's expression, he had a vague premonition.
"Is this about the source of the Illusion?" he asked.
