"What do you want?"
"Yo, Haoran." Ling Yinchi raised her hand, smiling at him.
Her orange cheongsam was still slightly smudged with dust and earthworm fluids, but she carried herself with an easy, almost lazy posture, waving at him as if they were old childhood friends casually running into each other at a bustling market square rather than competing in a high-stakes, broadcasted imperial survival trial.
Haoran frowned. The sight of her flippant demeanor only served to mildly irritate him. "If you don't have anything to say, then leave."
His tone was cold, sharp, and cut through the desert air like an unsheathed blade.
Beside him, Shen Xinye shifted slightly, her hand twitching, ready to react if either of the two women attempted anything foolish.
