Nie Rong, who had been resting with his eyes closed, snapped them open. Poor Liang Lisheng, whose scalp had been singed bare, was looking into a mirror across the room, hand raised to groom his hair. Hearing what Nie Zhao said, he nearly jumped out of his skin.
His hair was permed and impossible to smooth down; as he trembled with agitation, it stood even straighter.
"A-Zhao, I know you’re not like the generous A-Yao, and that you have a stubborn, solitary nature. But don't spout such nonsense! If I ever had thoughts like that, may I be struck by lightning!" Liang Lisheng fumed. He raised his right hand, clenched his sandbag-sized fist, and slammed it into his palm. He wiped away a trickle of nosebleed, not forgetting to cast a glance at Chen Rou, who stood nearby—hands behind her back, legs wide apart, and standing in a brazen, imposing posture.
Chapter 61