The atmosphere was tense and still. Dozens of gazes, like invisible shackles, were pinned on Fang Han—a mix of greed, suspicion, and apprehension. The very air felt thick and heavy.
The rich, lingering medicinal fragrance, along with the sharp sword gashes and claw marks on the ground, frayed everyone's nerves.
His status as a True Inheritor of the Qingxuan Sect was a layer of protection, but in the face of a Heaven and Earth Spiritual Object like a thousand-year-old ginseng—an item capable of driving people to madness—that protection had grown perilously thin.
"Young Sir."
A middle-aged man in a brocade robe stepped forward. He had a fair complexion, but his eyes held a crafty glint.
He cupped his fists in a salute, a smile spreading across his face—one that seemed friendly but was designed to corner its target.
