Feng Zhiwei's mouth twitched, and she wondered to herself whether she ought to salute him according to the ceremonial rites or if she could find a way to secretly kick him off the carriage. But then the man finished his perverted words: "Marvelous like your blood."
Feng Zhiwei immediately came to a decision and lifted her chin and cried out: "Dried peach!"
A scarlet sword burst through the carriage roof like a bolt of lightning, stabbing towards the man's head.
But that man casually sipped from his glass, not shifting a single muscle, the wine in his glass perfectly calm.
The sharp sword howled through the air only to curve an inch away from the man's skull, sliding past and skimming the crystal glass in the man's hand.
Biting cold fell around them in an irresistible blanket, but it did not disturb a single mote of dust.
