Eyes met.
Meng Fuyao's eyes were clear, like the moon high above the clouds. On the other hand, his eyes were deep and intense, like the ever-flowing ocean.
The moon shone down onto the peaceful ocean as nature started singing along to the rhythm created by its gently rippling waters, its chorus generating a rumbling echo.
At this moment, her blade ray came close.
He opened his mouth, but at that moment, there was no sound.
"Still doing well, Fuyao?"
Still, doing well?
The movement of his lips sent electricity straight into her heart.
Meng Fuyao had imagined plenty of times a reunion between Yuan Zhaoxu and herself. But they would meet again at a festive location, perhaps at a grand gathering of the noblemen or in his nation ––– she hadn't considered the possibility of seeing him again on such a night, and that he would be standing opposite of her as the recipient of her incoming blade.
