Li Weizhen's throat is as dry as a desert. His heart is lodged in his throat. The emotion that he feels is so terrifyingly potent that it pricks his entire body, like needles that have inched deep into his pore. Even breathing becomes difficult. The pain is numbing, blurring his vision, makes even concentration difficult.
His hands slowly circle around the hilt of his sword but strength does not abide his will, his grip feeling alarmingly weak.
The person who stands before him is as calm as a lazy summer breeze. His expression unmarred by alarm or panic. His dark eyes scrutinize Weizhen closely, with a gentle smile on his lips. Perhaps he might be mad—
No, Hongyue Wanai is most certainly mad. But what Li Weizhen lacks in composure, Ye Yinan makes up for it tenfold.
