Those who dared to offend him were either exiled or died on the spot, each fate more miserable than the last.
This moment, he was walking on Vermilion Bird Avenue, limping, his face expressionless.
His face showed neither ripples of emotion nor any sorrow for the death of his only son.
At last, when he arrived at a desolate mansion, he finally stopped walking, his iron-blooded eyes slowly surveying the property.
The mansion was peaceful, deathly silent, with trees planted inside, but since it was deep autumn, the leaves had long since withered.
The dry branches looked like ghosts and demons, especially sinister, giving one an instant shudder.
Nowadays, all manner of strange occurrences happened frequently in the capital. Ordinary people, coming to this courtyard, would likely have been scared away a long time ago, not to mention that it was now deep into the night, the prime time for ghosts to roam freely.
