After everyone in the ledger had been drawn, the man spoke, his voice thin and cold.
"To dare covet the Sect Leader—even flaying alive would be letting you off lightly."
As he spoke, his gaze fell upon the last living person on the stage.
The portly man clad in brocade and embroidered silk now wore a pale face, his legs giving way as he crumpled to his knees.
His eyes were vacant and lifeless—clearly, the massacre had already left him stupefied with terror.
All he could do was beg pitifully for mercy, again and again.
"Mercy, my lord! Please, grant mercy!"
The blue-robed man sized him up, a sneer flickering on his indifferent face.
"Spent one hundred thousand taels in gold leaves to have the Sect Leader serve you for a night? You have some nerve."
As soon as the words fell, the blue-robed man's blade flashed—one of the man's hands was severed there and then.
The wretch screamed in agony, so frightened he wet himself.
