Truth be told, Qi Tian had only met Zhao Qian a handful of times. In his memory, she always appeared lithe and vibrant, just like a javelin. The young lady, whose face he could not recall, was even more aloof than Zhao Qian. She seemed like a lofty peacock, looking down upon all creatures from high above.
However, right now, both of them lost their luster. Their mount, the red-eyed demonic wolves Qi Tian had sold to them, was now saturated with blood. Zhao Qian's wolf had half its ear missing, while the young lady's mount sported a wound on its rump. The women were both disheveled, their clothes torn, their hair messy, their bodies marked by injuries. Zhao Qian, in particular, was covered in blood.
Not knowing what they had gone through, Qi Tian could only surmise it was something traumatic to have left them in such a state.
