"I won't ask again. Where is Su Yueqing?" Chen Mo's voice cut through the silence like a blade, low and dangerous.
Xu Tialan pressed his lips into a thin, stubborn line.
Blood still trickled from the corner of his mouth, yet he refused to speak.
His eyes burned with defiance, even as pain twisted his features.
Chen Mo's grip tightened on the hilt of his sword.
Without another word, he raised the blade high, the edge catching the dim light and flashing with cold intent.
The air around the weapon seemed to hum with restrained killing qi, ready to cleave Xu Tialan in two.
But before the sword could descend, a deafening crack tore through the heavens.
For the second time that day, the sky itself split open.
A jagged tear of blinding white light ripped across the bruised purple dusk.
From that wound in reality, three figures slowly descended, robes billowing like dark clouds caught in an updraft.
They wore the exact same style of robe as Xu Tialan.
