Qin Hao kicked over the Eight Immortals table in front of him.
The whole table of food and wine collapsed, the braised carp rolled down at Hua Zixuan's feet, and the oily soup dripped down the edge of the table, splashing on his washed gray robe.
The sound of the porcelain bowl shattering was as loud as thunder, and the broken porcelain fragments jumped onto his calf, cutting a shallow bloody gash.
Hua Zixuan didn't move.
He stood among the table scraps, like a wooden stake that had been splashed with dirty water.
There were at least two hundred people sitting in the hall on the third floor of Chutian Pavilion, and all the prominent figures in Jiangning City were there.
Just now, these people were changing cups and cups, but now they were all quiet, their eyes piercing him like knives.
