Within the mist-shrouded halls of the Underworld, the golden light-mark on White Judge’s neck suddenly constricted by half an inch.
He was pinned against a bluestone slab etched with reincarnation patterns, his fingernails carving harsh, piercing scratches into the rock as he let out a hoarse roar: "You think you’ve won? The Holy Monarch Cult will not end here!"
Pi Yanlin leaned against the armrest of the Judge’s chair, his thumb slowly rubbing the rim of a tea cup—an item he had just swiped from the desk. The tea was cold, but the porcelain felt smooth and docile.
Chapter 156