Footsteps outside the window drew closer, and Elder Chen's voice broke apart in the private room like residual snow scattered by a cold wind. Ye Fan lightly tapped the rim of his teacup. A faint greenish glow suddenly flashed across the ice-crack patterns on the cup, instantly sinking back into the porcelain glaze—the Power of the Heavenly Dao within his Inner World recoiled like a silken thread, completely erasing the marks he had carved into the teacup with his Yuanqi.
When he raised his eyes, his brows were pressed low, like clouds before a mountain rain. "Young Member Zhao is certainly losing his patience."
Su Qingxue's wide sleeves brushed across the qin strings. The lingering notes of the *General's Decree* still echoed against the beams, but she had already switched to *Qingping Le*. The qin music was as soft as a spring night's mist, yet the pressure of her fingertips against the "Gong" string was enough to nearly snap the silk. "Commander Zhang has spent ten years sharpening his blade, just waiting for today to carve off a fat piece of meat." She tilted her head to look at Ye Fan, the cinnabar mark at the corner of her eye reddened by the candlelight. "Does the young master know that every wall in the private rooms of Wanhua Tower has plum blossoms buried inside them?"
Chapter 33