Cornered at the center of the sunny bell-tower roof by five hundred smiling, red-vested Canglan Grandmas, eighteen-year-old Chosen One Ye Ming backed up against the bronze bell until his heels hit the frame.
Desperately trying to salvage the last shred of his “Forsaken Dark Emperor” dignity in front of three billion live broadcast viewers, Ye Ming pulled the tattered collar of his black raven-feather cloak up over the bridge of his nose, narrowed his eyeliner-rimmed eyes. Rasped in his deepest gravel-gargling voice:
“Stay back, foolish mortals! Do not come within three paces of me! My soul is a cursed abyss of eternal solitude, my blood runs colder than the nine netherworlds, and anyone who touches my shadow shall be consumed by—”
SLAP!
Sixty-five-year-old Captain Grandma Liu didn’t even let him finish his sentence. She briskly swatted his black feather collar down with the back of her hand, pressed her warm, calloused palm flat against Ye Ming’s rice-flour-powdered forehead. Clicked her tongue so loudly it echoed over the planetary broadcast!
“Consumed by what? Consumed by a summer head-cold, that’s what!” Grandma Liu scolded, pinching Ye Ming’s skinny wrist between two fingers and holding it up for the other four hundred and ninety-nine grandmas to inspect.
