This was a world in which the fittest survived. In order to stretch out one's head amid the layers of reeds on the shores of the North Sea, to have the right to eat among the wolf packs on the grasslands, one needed to abandon the so-called "feelings of weakness." Saints were heartless, and sages were unintentional. Any less than this was insufficient to transcend worldliness.
The courtyard in the Master of the City's manor was silent. The bodies and pools of blood on the ground had been pushed to the two walls by the shockwaves. It was as if it had been swept aside by god's hand. The blood became red paint brushed evenly across the walls with a few newly fallen green leaves below.
With these green leaves as boundary lines, Sigu Jian and the Shadow, this pair of brothers, each sat by their own set of stone steps. Heavily injured and speechless, they watched each other coldly.
