Yang Chen walked into the room, not rushing to deal with Banra, who dared not move. Instead, he bent down and picked up the Muramasa, playing with it with some interest.
This blade had once been something he longed for in his childhood. After all, being born in an assassin's nest, revered artifacts among assassins naturally garnered great admiration. However, now that this blood-stained, ancient, bloodthirsty demonic blade was in his hands, Yang Chen surprisingly didn't feel much desire to possess it.
Former idols, former dreams—now one turned into a lost soul underfoot, the other into a toy in his hand. Who says life isn't a joke?
