Xiang Minghao lay within the estate grounds, with a hazy emptiness above his left shoulder, reminiscent of a shattered bird lying here, its blood nearly drained.
In fact, he understood more than Wudong and An Cang about what had transpired.
He had known Meng Li, long before Happy Death Tower infiltrated the Lake Mountain Sword Sect.
Almost unrelated to this event, it was three years ago in Daxue Village where a gang of horse thieves about a hundred and eighty strong had holed up. This lad, seventeen or eighteen years old, had pretended to be a rich young master and let himself be kidnapped to wait for a ransom.
One could tell this was not his first time undertaking such a deed; when the horse thieves gathered for their merry division of loot, he adeptly slipped some mysterious drug into their wine that he had procured from somewhere and then turned around to clean out a trove of gold and treasures from their vault.
