On a winter night, the wind screamed as snowstorm raged.
The West City was already deep in slumber, those awakened by the subtle disturbances dared not light their lamps to investigate.
Common citizens know best how to preserve themselves, minding their own business is the safest approach, for curiosity can kill.
Song Zhiyuan walked into the small courtyard in the West City, cloaked and hooded, with Jiang Fula holding an umbrella by his side to shield against the falling snowflakes, as they gazed at the corpses in the courtyard.
"Prime Minister." Several individuals knelt on one knee, their voices cold.
Song Zhiyuan glanced at them, then at the bodies on the ground, eyes deep.
