After Dong Han left, the entire back hall of the Imperial Clan Court descended into an eerie silence.
Zhao Xi stood in front of the redwood veneer carved with ancient designs, leisurely putting away the ink-dried paintings.
On the adjacent table screen, there was a sword stand holding Zhao Xi's protective sword, the Taixu Sword.
Except for the faint friction sound of him storing the paintings, there was no other noise, and time seemed to freeze at this moment.
Closing the painting cabinet door, Zhao Xi's right hand lightly grasped the hilt, but in an instant, he drew the sword at lightning speed, turned swiftly, and held it horizontally in front of him, just in time to block the sharp arrows breaking through the door.
The opponent's skills were excellent, just as Zhao Xi had previously guessed — only masters had come.
And very clearly, the nighttime assassination was just a false rumor deliberately spread by Chief Minister Yang; the real assassination had already begun.
