The silence that fell between them was sudden and overwhelmingly heavy.
The phantom breeze stopped, and the invisible grass seemed to lose its color.
"You do not wish to know what I see, Ji'an," Yan Zhaoge said softly. The rich, arrogant drawl was gone. His voice was flat, dry, and terrifyingly empty.
"Try me," Ji'an challenged, stepping closer. "You just spent five minutes laughing at my soul's deepest desire for dim sum. It's only fair you share your psychological baggage. What is it? An endless mountain of paperwork? A factory full of unpaid interns forging swords for eternity?"
Yan Zhaoge looked down at her.
He studied her defiant, silver-flecked eyes, the stubborn set of her jaw.
Slowly, the Sovereign of the Iron-Stove Monastery raised his hand, gesturing to the vast, empty space around them.
"I see fire," Yan Zhaoge whispered.
He didn't say it like a pyromaniac boasting of his power.
He said it like a prisoner describing the walls of his cell.
