The aesthetic spray of arterial blood across a marble floor, and the unadulterated horror of a battlefield.
Sitting in a plush chair watching a bunch of oiled, perfumed twigs flail their limbs around like dying chickens to the sound of a lute was his personal definition of psychological torture.
He took a slow sip from a crystal goblet of wine, his amber eyes completely dead.
'I should have stayed in the Celestial Sword Sect,' Yan Xuanye mused, a sudden, entirely out-of-character wave of fond nostalgia washing over his dark heart.
For three years, the Blood Sovereign had engaged in a highly entertaining, deeply bizarre undercover hobby.
Bored of his throne, he had suppressed his monstrous cultivation, disguised his purple hair, and infiltrated the orthodox Celestial Sword Sect under the alias "Yan Lie", a common, wild, unremarkable outer-sect disciple with a supposedly trash-tier spirit root.
He hadn't done it to steal sect secrets.
He had done it because it was fun.
