Zhao Yan's eyes darkened. He shoved him back, blade slicing across Pei Rong's shoulder. The Prime Minister howled in pain, staggering as blood stained the rich red silk of his robe.
Outside the hall, the sounds of battle were louder now. The gates had fallen, Zhao Yan's men flooding the courtyards, driving the Prime Minister's bandits back step by bloody step.
Inside, the last of Pei Rong's men were dying—bodies crumpled across the marble floor, their blood pooling around the dais steps.
But Pei Rong didn't yield.
He lunged at Zhao Yan again, blade slashing down with savage fury. Zhao Yan caught it on the flat of his sword, the impact jarring up his arm, but he didn't falter.
Around them, Hua Jing and Zhao Ling Xu fought on, blades a blur, cutting down the last of the Prime Minister's personal guard. There was no time for hesitation, no space for doubt—only the clash of steel, the hiss of breath, the sharp scent of blood.
