When Ma San's fist hung suspended in mid-air, his back molars ground together audaciously. Having spent ten years knocking around Qinglan City, he had never laid eyes on a brash young punk who dared to look at him as if he were already a corpse—yet there wasn't a shred of bluffing ferocity in that gaze; it looked more like someone watching a swarm of moths hurling themselves into a fire, awaiting the inevitable burn.
"Get him, boys! Hack this bastard to pieces!" Ma San viciously kicked a nearby bouncer and whipped the short saber from his waist with a sharp swish. Seven or eight thugs surged forward brandishing clubs, knocking wooden stools askew and shattering teacups on the floor, porcelain shards splashing right up to Ye Fan's feet.
Su Qingxue lightly brushed a fingertip across her strings. The tune of "Flowing Water" lingering within the private suite abruptly shifted in key. The clear, tinkling prelude transformed into the clashing of metal armor and weapons, the seven silk strings vibrating like war drums, every single beat heavily striking against the listeners' hearts. Though she still lowered her gaze to pluck the strings with that calamitous, seductive indolence, as her sleeves flipped back, silver bells at her wrists chimed softly with her movements, blending with the zither music into a rhythm harboring hidden murderous intent.
Chapter 32