Fu Chi sat on the couch, his black eyelashes slightly lowered, his lips lightly pursed, his jawline sleek and sharply defined, radiating an aura of pristine coldness akin to the first snow.
Seemingly harmless at first glance, yet his presence inexplicably put one on edge, stirring a tingling sensation of anxiety as if a slight mishap could prompt a swift beheading.
He could make one feel that their very existence seemed to be a contaminating effluence in the air around him.
An overwhelming sense of inferiority arose.
The three people all looked towards the elderly man.
Uncle Ming came over with a tea tray and set it down.
Fu Tingyuan personally poured tea from the teapot into the exquisite teacups, white mist swirling around.
Then, he placed a teacup in front of Fu Chi.
It was a common gesture that belied an underlying implication and each movement seemed to strike the hearts of those present, and sound an alarm.
