At this very moment.
Yang Jian was standing in front of a dining table.
A pristine white tablecloth was spread on top of it, at the center of which sat a vase with a single white rose that was vibrant and fragrant, as if it had been freshly bought from a flower shop that morning, in stark contrast to the wilted flowers on the other tables.
Next to the dining table, there was a white porcelain plate with a set of knife and fork beside it. Inside the plate, shockingly, lay a human face.
Traces of fear and despair could be faintly seen on the face.
Yang Jian glanced at the knife and fork next to it, stained with blood, as if the face had been crudely carved from someone's head with this very set, no, not as if, that was in fact what had happened.
He even saw the blood that had seeped from beneath the facial skin pooling under the plate, emitting a faint wisp of steam.
Everything indicated that a terrifying event had recently taken place here.
