When Xu Ci woke up, his mouth was full of blood.
It's not someone else's, it's his own. It was as if someone had stuffed a red-hot iron into his Dantian. The pain made him break out in cold sweat. He didn't know how many ribs were broken. Every time he took a breath, it was like a bellows, making a huffing and puffing sound.
He lay on the ground and looked at the familiar eaves above his head.
He had been to Qingxuanzong's meeting hall eighty times if not a hundred times. Every time he came here before, the master would sit on top and greet him with a smile: "Xiao Ci, come and sit." But now, the master was sitting there, his face as serious as a coffin board, without even raising his eyelids.
"Xu Ci, do you know your guilt?"
