Fang Hong rushed to the window, pressing his gaze against the glass to look outside. The street was quiet, seemingly peaceful and harmonious. But he sensed something eerie in that silence.
He turned back.
Rotao immediately understood, walked to the door, and pushed the handle forcefully.
Swish, swish, silver torpedo-shaped flying machines slipped out one by one from under Fang Hong's coat. He raised his left hand, and they swarmed out from the opening door like a bee swarm.
The vision through the lens traversed the corridor, searching towards the window opened at the end of the hall.
In the corridor, the inn's servant was walking forward holding a laundry basin, next to see this odd group of constructs whizzing past him.
The poor man was almost scared to shock, standing in place with wide eyes and dropped the wooden basin with a thud.
