The night had deepened, with dark clouds masking the face of the moon. The wind, rising at some unknown time, began drifting raindrops across the sky, bringing an autumn rain suddenly upon Hanghu.
Raindrops, carried by the wind, fell upon the bamboo forest at the West Lake Club, producing a 'rustling' sound.
Perhaps the West Lake Club was just too quiet, allowing that sound to be heard so clearly by the Qinghong members in charge of security that they caught every detail.
Gradually, the rain intensified, drenching the garments of the burly men stationed at the entrance of the club, who felt a wave of coldness wash over them.
However—
Compared to the repression in their hearts, the physical coldness seemed trivial.
The tension arose because ever since Yang Qing was crippled by Ye Fan today, Lin Ao Feng had been on edge like a ticking bomb—in the past few hours, several members of Qinghong had become Lin Ao Feng's punchbags, beaten to a state of helplessness.
