The sweet fermented rice balls on the bamboo couch at the Xuan'an Bureau were still steaming, but Gu Qinghuan’s blade had already left its scabbard by three inches.
She looked up at the churning clouds. The humming vibration of the blade in its sheath overlapped with the dull rumbles of thunder on the horizon—this was no natural storm; it was the sound of the laws of heaven shattering.
"It’s the Holy Monarch," Pi Yanlin said suddenly. The bamboo mat slid halfway off, exposing his shoulder and neck, yet he did not even lift his head, staring only at his own upturned toes. "His lingering resentment is clinging to the final gasp of the False Law Sect, like mud stuck to the sole of a shoe." He tapped his finger against the edge of a food container; the crisp clink of porcelain was underscored by a faint, ghostly screech. "Qinghuan, do you hear that? He’s shouting about 'karma.'"
Chapter 207