Destiny is a good word.
Because no matter what goes well or poorly for you, blaming fate is never wrong.
But for Zheng Qing, fate feels more like a synonym for misfortune, like the noose on the execution stage, tightening around his neck, refusing to loosen even a bit.
Just like now, that noose tightened a bit more.
The young cost student couldn't help but tug at his loose collar, feeling a bit suffocated. The moment Jiang Yu read the title of that article, he felt things might go awry. Counting the days, it's been seven weeks since the "Daily Horn Newspaper" published that report, and he didn't expect anyone to pay attention to it anymore.
Or rather, anyone to make a fuss about it again.
He thought the storm would have died down with the passage of time—especially after just experiencing the Winter Hunting, witnessing palm-sized mountains descending from the sky, almost burying his memory of the article deep within his mind—then suddenly, it got ruthlessly dug out again.
