The autumn rain fell harder and harder. Landing on the ground, it sent out ripples. Landing on the body, it wet one's clothing. Landing on the heart, it felt incomparably cold. The square in front of the Royal Palace had been completely enveloped by a misty rain. All that could be seen was a wet landscape.
Everyone's gaze was focused on the small wooden stage in the rain and the two people on the stage. Controlled and infected by some kind of emotion, no one spoke or moved. They just looked, focusing their gaze through the heavy rain and fog on the stage.
Hundreds and thousands of imperial soldiers, internal court aces, and those Ascetic Monks of the Qing Temple, just stood tensely and sternly in the rain, like frozen wooden people.
In just a moment, a number of people had died in Sir Fan junior's hands. With such bitingly cold rain, they did not know what emotions were flashing through the eyes of the Emperor high up on the city wall.
