Ren Zhong leaned back against the sofa, his upper torso tilted eight degrees backward from the vertical axis, his neck slightly raised, and his eyes half-closed, looking toward the passage from which the sound of wind was coming.
Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh!
Accompanied by the continuous sound of wind, nine middle-aged men and women dressed in the characteristic noble robes of the Mechanical Empire appeared simultaneously on hoverboards, right in front of Ren Zhong, behind the tea table.
The strong wind brought by their rapid flight swept towards Ren Zhong, dispersing the white mist floating above the teacup before him.
Ren Zhong looked at these people expressionlessly, with a hint of subtle disdain in his eyes.
Their robes had more or less some creases, and their hair was somewhat messy and unkempt, slightly disheveled.
Obviously, they came in a great hurry, neglecting etiquette.
Ren Zhong thought this was a good start. The title of Imperial Apostle was indeed intimidating.
