"Get blood from these five people, and finish before ten tonight." There was a pen and paper on the desk. Bei Mingyuan quickly wrote down five addresses and five names. "Do it without a trace, understand?"
"Yes, yes, yes, of course I do! Don't you worry, Master." Yan Huo nodded like a chicken pecking at grain, taking the slip of paper. He marveled, "Wow, Master, your handwriting is gorgeous! Which means…" He was in the middle of laying it on thick when he froze and glanced back at the T-shirt on the wall. "The writing on that shirt wasn't yours!"
If Xin Huohuo had heard this, and if she could have seen the handwriting on the note, she would have been mortified. They were both just characters on a page, but her writing was a chaotic scrawl, like a bunch of drunkards passed out in a pile. Bei Mingyuan's, on the other hand, was a work of art—a flurry of elegant, powerful strokes.
