The candle flames in the underground palace flickered and danced in the draft, casting a pale, ashen light across A Lian's face.
Her blood-stained fingers clawed into the cracks of the gray bricks, her knuckles turning white from the force, while broken, incoherent whispers spilled from her throat: "They said... the Holy Monarch is a god... you have to believe in him..."
Pi Yanlin squatted down, the gray cloth of his menial uniform smudged with plaster dust.
Chapter 39