Five people stared at their flowers uneasily.
Their gaze frequently darted towards Bai Youwei and Shen Mo's flowers—pristine white lotus, dignified Chinese peonies, almost undamaged atop the glass vase—markedly contrasting from the rest.
The atmosphere was stifling.
Anxiety, impatience, jealousy, and unease tightly wrapped around them like an invisible net, restricting their breath.
Only when someone else returned from the direction of the woods, their flowers wilting gravely, did the gloomy look in the five's eyes dissipate slightly.
Among the third batch of returnees, Zhang Qi's flower stood out.
He brought back a lush, vibrant cactus, the top of which bloomed a golden flower. Thanks to the nutrients supplied by the cactus, there was no trace of wilt on the flower.
However, Zhang Qi's hands were punctured and stained with blood.
