The night wind sneaked in through the lifted curtain of the cart, and Zhang Changshuo only felt a "chill" that cut to the bone, as if he had fallen into an ice cave.
The passionate bloodlust of just moments ago, the far-flung reveries of a gentleman's revenge, seemed to have been shattered by that one call of "Brother Zhang."
"Zhao..."
He was stiff all over, his throat clogged, his eyes bulging.
Seeing that the driving house servant had already fainted, slumped to the ground, the nag horse anxiously flicked its tail.
"What? Did you not expect me to catch up?"
Zhao Douan's smile was gentle as he flipped the curtain toward the top of the carriage, letting the moonlight pour in; he then leisurely took a seat inside the carriage.
Zhang Changshuo's lips turned white, as he suppressed his fear with a harsh tone:
"Does this official need to report to you when I go out for a breather?"
He hadn't even noticed that his own voice was trembling.
