The side hall door closed behind them with a heavy, muffled thud. Yue Tingzhou’s feet were rooted to the spot; he did not move immediately. He rotated his wrist, pressing the thin sheet, wrapped three layers in oiled paper and tucked in the hidden pocket of his sleeve, against his palm, his fingertip resting on the paper’s edge. The faint, bitter scent of almonds seeped from the preserving liquid, like a forgotten plum branch left in a corner. Zhu Hanli had already walked to the long altar table beneath the window. She pulled out her hairpin—the ordinary one, its end inlaid with fragments of white jade in the shape of pear blossoms. Her fingertip gave the pinhead a slight twist and press, and the middle section of the pin slid open soundlessly. She turned it upside down, held it over a plain white handkerchief spread on the table, and gave it a gentle tap. A few translucent crystal fragments, smaller than grains of rice, fell onto the handkerchief. The light filtering through the window was a bluish-gray, cutting diagonally into the hall from under the towering eaves of the Wanmen Hall, landing precisely on the handkerchief. The crystal fragments came alive in the light, refracting dense, hair-fine patterns of glowing runes that flowed like imprisoned fireflies. “One stick of incense,” Yue Tingzhou spoke, his voice pressed extremely low, almost a breath. He walked to the table and unfolded the remnant page from his palm. The paper was a dark yellow, its edges bearing the charred marks of fire. It was densely covered with names, sects, birth dates, and cryptic annotations in cinnabar code. Some names were crudely crossed out with ink lines, with hastily added notes in different handwriting beside them. “Third column of the list,” Zhu Hanli said, her gaze not leaving the crystal fragments. She extended her index finger, its tip hovering half an inch above the fragments, and released a subtle thread of true qi, guiding the flow of the light spots. The spots converged, condensing into lines of clear text and numbers—a secret ledger format understood only within the Wan Mirror Escort Bureau, recording consignment numbers, cargo descriptions, dispatch and receipt locations, and handlers. Yue Tingzhou dipped his finger into the half-cooled teacup on the table. The tea gathered into a trembling droplet on his fingertip. His eyes swept over the third column of the remnant page, stopping beside the anomalous annotation for “Yi-Number Seven.” The droplet fell, spreading a small damp stain on the paper’s edge. His fingertip moved like a brush, swiftly tracing a line connecting a name on the remnant page—“Inner Sect Disciple of Hidden Scale Cove, Chen Songtao”—to the “Yi-Number Seven Consignment Record” formed by the light spots before Zhu Hanli. “It matches,” Zhu Hanli’s voice was steady, but her words came a fraction faster. “The consignor is Hidden Scale Cove’s own warehouse. The delivery location…” The light spots under her fingertip flowed, settling on a line of geographical code, “Wind-Eroded Valley in the Northern Desert.” Wind-Eroded Valley. That was not a trade route, nor a sect’s territory. It was a forbidden land marked on maps with warnings of “quicksand devours bones, fierce winds cut like knives.” No ordinary escort team would take business leading there. He dipped for a second droplet, his gaze moving to the next entry. On the remnant page, another name, crossed out and annotated: “True Successor of Crane Cry Mountain, Lin Wanzhao.” The meaning of the cinnabar code beside it, he had long since deciphered—it indicated “unusual spiritual root, suspected to be of the ‘Cold Soul’ or ‘Blazing Sun’ type.” Zhu Hanli needed no reminder. Her fingertip had already slid to another crystal fragment. The light spots reassembled, revealing another record: “Bing-Number Three, Consignment: Ancient Text Rubbings (fragmented), Shipper: Old Wan Mirror Tower Repository, Consignee: Outer Relay Station of ‘Molten Fire Cavern’ in the Western Mountains.” Molten Fire Cavern. A place wracked by fire poison, the polar opposite of a Cold Soul constitution. The lines drawn by the tea water crisscrossed on the remnant page. One, two, three… Each line connected a young cultivator, selected by the “Book of Destiny” for their special aptitude, with a seemingly ordinary escort record whose destination was perilous and bizarre. A faint sound—the deliberate, slowed friction of boot soles on stone. More than one person. They had stopped outside the door. No conversation, just standing there. The sound of breathing seeped through the door crack, bringing subtle shifts He gently placed the jade slip beside the torn page, aligning it with the lines drawn by the tea water. Zhu Hanli glanced at the jade slip, her eyes darkening. This was what Shamā Āshī had given them, sealing within it a memory fragment recorded through Yi secret arts—about her sister and several other mountain-dwelling rogue cultivators, who were lured into signing "high-matching marriage contracts," then sent to "sect blessed lands," after which there was no further news. At the end of the memory was Shamā Āshī's fingerprint pressed with her own blood, its pattern identical to the dark red marks on the jade slip. "Seventh row of the list, that unaffiliated rogue cultivator, 'Liu Qingyan'," Zhu Hanli said, the light spot at her fingertip quickly locking onto an area recording several small-scale escorts sent to different "sect branch manors," with vague cargo descriptions, mostly "herbal medicines" or "classical texts." Yue Tingzhou's gaze fell on the seventh row of the torn page. After Liu Qingyan's name, the annotation read: "Orphan, dual water-wood spiritual roots, matching rate ninety-seven percent." And in the records summoned by Zhu Hanli's light spot, the destination of one of the escorts strikingly matched the name of a branch manor from Shamā Āshī's memory, one where "sister was sent and then lost contact." He dipped his finger in the last drop of tea water and pressed it heavily onto that connecting line. The water mark quickly spread, vaguely linking "Liu Qingyan," "ninety-seven percent matching rate," and the name of that branch manor. Like a wound, or like a crack finally pried open. Three pieces of evidence—the tattered seal register, the flickering mirror-casket log, the bloodstained testimony jade slip—were forcibly strung together within the narrow space of the offering table by lines drawn in tea water and characters formed by light spots. A distorted net, its outline faintly emerging: screening, marking, transporting, vanishing. This time, they left, heading toward the other end of the corridor, their steps faster than when they had arrived. Yue Tingzhou and Zhu Hanli looked up simultaneously, exchanging a glance. The "connection summary" on the table—those names, connecting lines, corresponding escort numbers and locations—was rapidly drying. The edges of the characters written in tea water were already beginning to wrinkle and blur. The hall was deathly silent. Only the faint, distant clamor of the crowd from the public square outside the window seeped through, as if muffled by thick cotton batting. Just then, from the far end of the corridor outside the hall door, came the sound of extremely hushed, rapid conversation. The content was unclear, but the tone was urgent, carrying a tension that followed the issuance of some order. Immediately after, the heavy, muffled sound of not just one but several pairs of boots treading on stone slabs approached from afar, heading toward the side hall door. The steps were orderly, heavy, accompanied by the faint, scattered clinking of metal armor plates. Yue Tingzhou lifted his finger from the torn page, its tip still stained with a bit of undried tea residue. He glanced at Zhu Hanli. Zhu Hanli flicked her wrist, the handkerchief and the crystal piece on it disappearing into her palm, while her other hand swiftly snatched up the crucial torn page of the seal register, covered with connecting lines. That connection summary lay before them, the ink still wet, each character sharp as a blade. Several names from the screening list were linked by the tea-water strokes to the record numbers in the mirror-casket log—those disguised as ordinary escort goods but actually leading to dead ends—forming cold, hard lines. Zhu Hanli was tilting her head, listening to the commotion outside the hall. The guards' footsteps paced back and forth about three zhang from the door, the friction of their boot soles grinding against the bluestone floor regular and oppressive. She turned her head back, her gaze falling on the high window in the east wall of the side hall—the window lattice was openwork, the gaps no wider than a finger, but outside was the only path to the side hall corridor. "Someone," her lips moved, soundlessly. Yue Tingzhou followed her line of sight. Beyond the window gaps, several figures were passing slowly, the patterns on their robe sleeves faintly visible in the sunlight. One of them had the dark pattern of a forge and anvil embroidered on the hem of his robe—the emblem of the Artifact Refining Sect's "Thousand Hammer Hall." Another elder wore a green jade book token at his waist, the standard of Crane Bank Academy. All were neutral factions that Lu Jianwei had secretly contacted before. The true qi in A faint sizzling sound arose, carrying the bitter scent of scorched stone. The noise was as light as the buzzing of a mosquito’s wings, yet in the deathly silence of the hall, it was rendered unnervingly clear. He had to control it with extreme precision—if his true qi was too weak, the characters would leave no mark on the bluestone; if too strong, the fluctuations would spill outward. More crucially, he had to carve the three most impactful pieces of information from the summary within a single breath. First: The third column of the screening list, "Qingyang Sword Sect Inner Disciple · Lin Shouye." Second: Mirror-Casket Log, Yi-7 record, "Carrier: Hidden Scale Cove; Cargo: Three Sealed Spirit Iron Chests; Destination: North Desert Wind-Eroded Valley." Third: Beside these two records, he used his true qi to scorch a simple arrow symbol, pointing to a line of small text beside it—"Seven days after the carrier record, said disciple suffered 'accidental' complete meridian shattering and total cultivation loss in a sect minor competition." It wasn’t the light of the true qi itself, but Yue Tingzhou had infused a wisp of his "Illuminating Pulse" true intent into it, causing the carved marks to briefly absorb the natural light filtering through the window, presenting a gentle, clear, faint glow. The characters were not large, each only the size of a copper coin, but the strokes were distinct and arranged in neat rows, exceptionally conspicuous against the bluish-gray base color of the pillar. The Refining Artifact Sect elder, who had been whispering with a colleague beside him, seemed as if something had nailed his feet in place. His gaze fell upon the pillar, his pupils abruptly contracting. The old man's lips parted slightly, his Adam's apple bobbed once, but no sound emerged. The Crane Bank Academy gentleman beside him also ceased his fanning motion, the folding fan suspended mid-air, its tassels perfectly still. The warm current at his fingertips dissipated, replaced by a faint trembling akin to exhaustion. He forcibly steadied his breathing, pressing that tremor deep back into his dantian. Outside the window, the characters on the pillar were slowly dimming, but the carved marks remained—at least for the next half-stick of incense, anyone passing by would be able to see them clearly. He slowly raised a hand, pointing at the characters on the pillar, and turned to look at the Crane Bank Academy gentleman beside him. The two exchanged a glance, tumultuous waves churning in their eyes. The elder's lips moved a few times as if he wished to say something, but in the end, no words came out. He merely nodded, extremely slowly and heavily. Then, he made a move that caused Yue Tingzhou's heart to tighten— The old man drew from his sleeve a palm-sized bronze mirror. Its edges were carved with dense patterns of talismanic script, yet the mirror surface did not reflect people; instead, it was aimed at the characters on the pillar. The mirror's surface rippled like water, and the images of those characters were imprinted into the mirror without the slightest deviation. Yue Tingzhou's breath hitched. This was better than he had anticipated—with this "Image-Retaining Mirror," the evidence was no longer a fleeting projection but had a physical backup. As the bronze mirror made its imprint, the faint light reflected from its surface flickered once on the pillar. That single flicker caused a guard outside the hall to sharply turn his head. "What was that?" A low voice came from outside the door. Zhu Hanli's hand instantly tightened around the short spear beneath her sash. Yue Tingzhou held his breath, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on the window slit. He saw the guard take two steps toward the pillar, the sound of his boot soles on the bluestone growing closer. The Refining Artifact Sect elder clearly sensed it too. The old man swiftly stowed the bronze mirror and, with a flick of his sleeve, seemingly casually blocked the carved marks on the pillar. He turned to the guard, his face already restored to its usual stern, unsmiling expression. "This old one was examining the grain of this pillar," the elder's voice was aged and steady. "The texture of this bluestone seems to be mixed with 'Cold Iron Sand'? It would indeed be suitable for forging basic sword blanks." The guard looked suspiciously at the elder, then at the pillar. The carved marks were mostly concealed by the old man's sleeve, only the edges showing a faint, indistinct trace, not conspicuous in the daylight. "...Elder, please, as you were," the guard finally clasped his fists and retreated. But Yue Tingzhou saw that after stepping back, the guard did not return to his original post. Instead, he stood in the shadow of a pillar Then he turned and, together with the teacher from Heting Academy, quickly left the corridor, heading toward the side hall. Their figures soon vanished around the corner, but Yue Tingzhou knew—the "witness circle" for the evidence had now been preliminarily formed. They had seen the correspondence between the filtered list and the black ledger, seen the dead ends ultimately pointed to by those marked names, and seen the cold, hidden chain of harvesting beneath the narrative of the "Heaven's Mandate List's fairness." Her breath carried a slight tremor of relief, but also a deeper tension. She looked at Yue Tingzhou, her eyes asking: What next? His ears caught another sound—not the footsteps of the guards outside the hall, but a rapid, orderly tread of boots coming from further away. The sound was approaching quickly, heading straight for the main entrance of the side hall. Moreover, the pace carried an unmistakable, resolute determination to carry out an order. Zhu Hanli clearly heard it too. Her fingers moved away from her sash and pressed against the edge of the table instead. On the table, the original copy of the linked summary was still there, the ink already dry. And the copies of the Mirror Casket logs and the blood-red jade slip, serving as "bait," were placed right at the very... The side hall door closed behind them with a heavy, muffled thud. Two members of the "Frost Falcon" guard stood on either side outside the door like statues cast from dark iron. The sound of footsteps faded away, and the rustle of Huo Qingya's departing robes vanished at the end of the corridor. Yue Tingzhou's ears captured every subtle sound—the air now held only the faint clamor from the distant Public Deliberation Hall and the suppressed breathing of himself and Zhu Hanli within the hall. He raised a hand, his fingertips lightly brushing the edge of a hidden pouch in his sleeve. The special, sealed-in-liquid sensation transmitted, carrying a faint scent of bitter almonds. Zhu Hanli moved almost simultaneously, the tiny mechanism of her hairpin's secret compartment opening with a sound as faint as a mosquito's hum. Between her fingertips, she held a crystal chip the size of a fingernail. Daylight slanted in through a crack in the high window, and the chip refracted scattered spots of light—dense, flowing patterns of inscribed runes. Without exchanging a glance, the two walked directly to the dust-covered long table in the center of the side hall. Yue Tingzhou spread the torn page flat. The edges of the paper were yellowed and curled, the ink a special indigo blue—the "Silencing Ink" unique to the internal seal ledgers of the Heaven's Mandate Book's Operations Department. Zhu Hanli pressed the crystal chip onto the upper right corner of the torn page, channeling a trace of imperceptibly fine true qi into her fingertips. The chip hummed, and the spots of light projected onto a blank area of the torn page, revealing lines of tiny, meticulous script—a summary of the Wan Mirror Escort Agency's transport logs. "Third column of the list," Yue Tingzhou spoke, his voice pressed extremely low. His fingertip dipped into the residual cold water in a teacup on the table and quickly wrote on the edge of the torn page. The water marks spread on the rough paper surface, leaving faint gray traces. Zhu Hanli's gaze darted rapidly between the chip's projection and the torn page. "Black Ledger, Category Yi, Number Seven," she said quickly and steadily. "Carrier is 'Hidden Scale Dock.' Destination points to the 'Wind-Eroded Valley' in the Northern Wastes." Yue Tingzhou's water-traced line connected a name on the torn page—"Qingyang Sword Sect · Lin Shouye"—to that log entry number. The strokes dried quickly. He had to get it right the first time. Both their movements froze simultaneously. Yue Tingzhou's ears twitched slightly, discerning the rhythm of a guard's routine patrol—three steps, a pause, five steps, a turn back. He looked at Zhu Hanli; she was adjusting the angle of the chip's light spots, avoiding any line of sight that might leak through the door crack. His fingertip dipped into the water again. Those names on the torn page—all were young talents who had suddenly perished or disappeared in the "Heaven's Mandate List" marriage contract matches over the past decade. Beside each name, Zhu Hanli's chip could project corresponding anomalous transport records: shipments of "Mirror Pivot" rubbings disguised as ordinary escort goods; "sect supplies" with vaguely marked destinations; even coded entries directly labeled "Waste Meridian Recovery." The connections drawn with tea water grew more numerous, like a net gradually tightening. Yue Tingzhou's temples throbbed. Time was like fine sand at the bottom of an hourglass Yue Tingzhou took a deep breath. The “Zhao Mai” true qi in his dantian began to circulate, flowing along the meridians in his arm toward his fingertips. This was not an offensive force, but the purest true qi for investigation and marking—a technique used by the Anlu Division’s covert agents to make invisible marks at crime scenes. The qi was extremely condensed, producing almost no ripples when released externally. But he had to make it pass through the window gap less than half an inch wide and land precisely on the bluestone surface of the corridor pillar three zhang away. Zhu Hanli’s hand pressed against her waist sash. That was the position of the holster for the young master of the Wan Jing Escort Bureau’s concealed short gun, but Yue Tingzhou knew that what she was pressing now was the inner lining of the sash—there was a hidden layer there. Her eyes swept over Yue Tingzhou, nodding ever so slightly. Yue Tingzhou raised his right index finger. A faint, almost imperceptible milky-white halo shimmered at its tip. He held his breath, concentrating all his focus on that wisp of true qi. Outside the window, the three representatives seemed to have finished their conversation and were about to turn and leave. The true qi pierced through the window gap like an invisible engraving needle. A faint “sizzling” sound rang through the air, like a red-hot iron rod branding ice. On the bluestone surface of the corridor pillar outside, lines of text began to etch themselves from faint to deep, scorching into existence— 「Qingyang Sword Sect · Lin Shouye」 「Transport Number: Yi Seven · Hidden Scale Dock · Wind-Eroded Valley」 「Note: Waste Meridians Recovered, Disposed」 The characters glowed faintly, strikingly conspicuous in the shadow of the pillar. The refining sect elder’s foot, about to step forward, froze. His eyes widened, pupils abruptly contracting. The jade ruler in the Jiangnan Academy disciple’s hand slipped half an inch before he gripped it tightly again. The elder from the Hanjiang Fishing Sage lineage drew a sharp breath, the sound clearly audible in the silent corridor. Yue Tingzhou’s true qi expended its last wisp, and the glow of the characters began to dim. But it was enough—he saw the refining sect elder suddenly turn his head, exchanging glances with the other two. No words were spoken, but the shock and gravity on their faces were more convincing than any speech. The “eyewitness circle” for the evidence had initially formed at this moment. Yue Tingzhou withdrew his hand, his fingertips trembling slightly. The true qi consumption wasn’t great, but the feeling of exhaustion after such intense mental strain caused a thin layer of sweat to seep onto his back. He looked at Zhu Hanli, who was quickly returning the crystal chip to the hidden compartment in her hairpin while wiping away the remaining water stains on the table with her sleeve. Footsteps—heavy, hurried footsteps—suddenly echoed from the corridor outside. Not the rhythm of routine patrols—this was running, the sound of multiple people rushing toward this place simultaneously. There was also the clatter of metal armor plates colliding, the sharp, grating sound of scabbards rubbing against belts. Yue Tingzhou’s heart sank. Too fast—the guards’ reaction was too fast. Either the shocked reactions of the three outside the window had been noticed by hidden watchers, or the faint fluctuations of true qi in the side hall had still been detected. Whichever it was, the crisis was already at their door. Zhu Hanli’s wrist turned over. The remaining page of the “Seal Pressing Record” vanished from the table, slipping into the hidden layer of her waist sash’s inner lining. The smooth texture of the silk lining enveloped the coarse paper, the concealing motion as fluid as straightening one’s sleeve. At the same time, her left hand gently pushed the blood-red jade slip copy on the table—the one recording Shama Ashi’s testimony—toward Yue Tingzhou’s hand. He took the jade slip, a warm yet faintly cool sensation transmitting from his palm. With his other hand, he retrieved the crystal chip copy of the “Mirror Case Log”—the counterfeit that could only display partial excerpts, unable to review the complete record—from his sleeve, placing it side by side with the jade slip in the most conspicuous spot on the table. Her eyes flickered toward her waist for an instant, then returned to the table. Yue Tingzhou gave a slight nod. The violent crash of the hall door being forced open tore through the brief silence in the side hall in the next moment. The door panel slammed against the wall, rebounded, and was kicked into place by someone. The sudden influx of light made Yue Tingzhou squint. Yue Tingzhou suddenly spoke, his voice not loud, yet clear enough for every person in the hall to hear distinctly: "Does Your Excellency know that the current session of the Ten Thousand Gates Public Assembly is still in recess?" He raised his eyes, the ferocity in his gaze intensifying. "So what?" "According to Article Three of the *Jianghu Public Assembly Protocols*," Yue Tingzhou enunciated each word as if reading a verdict, "During recess, the evidence presenter and the evidence they carry are under the temporary protection of the Public Assembly Hall. Any sect, administrative office, or private guard may not, for any reason, detain, inspect, or damage items under temporary protection—violators shall be deemed as challenging the authority of the Ten Thousand Gates Public Assembly and may be expelled on the spot by the Assembly Hall, permanently barred from the alliance." He paused, his gaze sweeping over the silver thread on the squad leader's shoulder armor. "Your Excellency intends to use the private authority of the Operations Maintenance Department to seize items under the temporary protection of the Public Assembly Hall." Yue Tingzhou's voice suddenly held a hint of almost gentle puzzlement. "Is it that you regard the rules of the Ten Thousand Gates as nothing, or..." The last three words fell as lightly as a feather touching the ground. But the squad leader's expression changed in that instant. It wasn't anger, but a stiffness of being exposed, of having his bottom card revealed. His fingers curled, withdrew, and pressed onto the hilt of his sword. The four guards behind him simultaneously stepped forward half a pace, hands on their hilts—waiting only for the command. Yue Tingzhou stood in place, motionless. He even tilted his body slightly, more fully exposing the "evidence" on the table to the other's line of sight. That posture didn't seem like protection, but more like an invitation for the other to look. Come and look. Look at how the mountain hermit cultivator recorded in this jade slip was lured into signing a marriage contract, look at how the Ten Thousand Mirrors Escort Agency transported those unspeakable "escort goods" in this crystal chip. Come and look—as long as you dare, during the recess, in the side hall of the Public Assembly Hall, in front of representatives from other sects who might pass by at any moment, to snatch it by force. The killing intent in the air and a more complex sense of apprehension began to wrestle. The squad leader's breathing grew heavy. His gaze swept toward the door several times, as if waiting for some instruction, or confirming some information. Yue Tingzhou knew what he was waiting for—waiting for further authorization from Huo Qingya, or for a signal that "the witnesses have been dealt with." Because those three representatives outside the window had likely already hurried back to their respective seats by now, whispering to their sectmates about what they had just seen. The news would spread like ripples on water, quietly diffusing through the undercurrents of the Public Assembly Hall. "Already witnessed by representatives"—these six words had now become the sharpest hidden blade, pressed against the squad leader's throat. From the corridor outside the hall, the faint sound of the bell preparing to ring from the direction of the Public Assembly Hall drifted in—a signal that the recess was about to end. Fine sweat beaded on the squad leader's temples. He stared fixedly at Yue Tingzhou, then looked at the two pieces of "evidence" on the table, and finally his gaze landed on Zhu Hanli, who had remained silent all along. Not at the position of her gun holster, but at the inner lining of her sash. That action looked merely like a woman's habit of adjusting her collar, but the squad leader clearly understood the threat within—if forced to act, she could destroy whatever was hidden in the lining at any moment. And once the core original was destroyed, relying solely on these copies on the table, no accusation could be substantiated. Instead, their act of "destroying evidence" would be exposed in broad daylight. The squad leader's teeth ground audibly. Finally, he took half a step back and raised his hand in a sweeping gesture. The four guard members released their sword hilts but did not retreat outside the door. Instead, they quickly dispersed, blocking the side hall's windows, back door, and the passage leading to the inner chamber. A blockade was formed, but no one attempted to touch the "evidence" on the table again. "The items stay here," the squad leader squeezed the words through clenched teeth. "And no one is to take half a step away. When the Assembly reconvenes, the truth will be revealed." With that, he turned and strode out of the side hall. The door was left open. The four guard members stood like four door gods, blocking the exit completely. Yue Tingzhou slowly let out a breath. He felt the This silent exchange and confirmation cast a small patch of stable shadow amidst the oppressive tension before the storm. But beyond the shadow, the encirclement had already formed, time was still slipping away, and the bell announcing the reopening of the public debate— The first toll of the bell, booming from the direction of the Public Debate Hall, rattled the window lattices. Yue Tingzhou’s heart gave a heavy thud in time with the bell. He looked out the door. The four guard members still stood rooted to their spots like iron nails, with no intention of moving aside. And from the shadows at the end of the corridor, a more familiar figure was slowly emerging. He wasn’t wearing armor, only dark-colored everyday robes, hands clasped behind his back, standing at the corridor’s corner. He wasn’t looking at the side hall, nor at the guards. Instead, he tilted his head slightly and gave a few low instructions to a trusted aide beside him. The aide nodded, silently retreated, and vanished into deeper shadow. But Yue Tingzhou’s eyes, in that instant, caught a certain detail—as the aide retreated, he held an unremarkable black whistle in his hand. The body of the whistle was neither metal nor wood, its surface devoid of any ornamentation, blending almost seamlessly with the gloom in the dim light. After giving his instructions, Huo Qingya finally turned his face, his gaze passing down the corridor to pierce directly into Yue Tingzhou inside the side hall. That face held no expression, but what lay in his eyes was colder, deeper, more like a declaration than the killing intent of the squad leader moments before. The ceremonial bell announcing the reopening of the public debate tolled, one after another, echoing over the Hall of Ten Thousand Doors. Each chime felt like a heavy hammer striking Yue Tingzhou’s chest. He knew the moment the bell tolls ended would be the moment they had to walk out of the side hall and return to the Public Debate Hall.