As Yang Khan's roar hung in the air, his face burning with indignation, Bai Lung's eyes remained fixed on him, a cold calculating glint dancing within their depths.
The atmosphere in the pavilion grew thick with tension, the air heavy with the weight of unspoken implications.
The silence that followed was oppressive, a palpable thing that seemed to suffocate the young master, rendering him mute and helpless... It felt like the entire sky was resting on his consciousness.
Bai Lung's words had struck a chord, piercing the inflated ego and revealing the hollow shell beneath.
The sound of Yang Khan's own hubris had been silenced, replaced by the echoes of his own inadequacy.
Xiao Ling'r, beside Bai Lung, seemed a statue, her expression a mask of serenity.
She knew that the words spoken were not meant for her, but for the young master, a lesson in the futility of his boasts.
