The silence in the grand pavilion was so thick that the flickering flame of the dragon braziers sounded like thunder.
Holy Son Ye Chen stood on the upper steps, his golden sword still vibrating. He stared at Lin Mo, his pupils contracting into sharp, venomous needles. Then, slowly, a cold, mocking smirk spread across his handsome face.
“A home movie?” Ye Chen let out a sudden bark of laughter, shaking his head with exaggerated amusement. “Chairman Lin, you truly are a clown from the lower realms. You speak of broad-spectrum arrays and server logs as if anyone here believes your nonsense.”
The tension among the ten thousand guests eased slightly. Several young masters from allied sects echoed Ye Chen’s forced laughter.
“Indeed!” Young Master Liu Feng yelled from beneath his broken table, wiping spilled broth from his collar. “The Holy Son’s private quarters are guarded by seven layers of ancient concealment barriers! Not even an immortal bird could peek inside, let alone a flying boat from the boonies!”
“Chairman Lin,” Ye Chen said, lowering his sword tip slightly to point at Mu Qing. “Is your famous Good-Person Radar malfunctioning? Or did the thin air of the Central Continent freeze your brain?”
