The entire inn where Qingyi was staying was silent.
The candles, torches, and mana crystals that illuminated it had been extinguished, leaving nothing but the moonlight streaming through the glass windows to light it.
In the center of the main hall, there was a single table. At it, a cloaked figure rested his back against the wooden chair.
His fingers, calloused from years of wielding swords, reached for a cup of tea on the table. His lips parted, accepting a single sip into himself.
"Ah..." The man lifted his noble, aged face, staring at the figure slowly descending the stairs.
"I don't believe you're here for good reasons." The figure's voice echoed: masculine, dignified, and soft, strangely pleasant to the ears.
It was Long Qingyi. As for the man waiting for him, he already had an idea of who he was.
"You hurt my son quite a bit..." The man spoke, confirming Qingyi's suspicions.
