The night was as dark as ink, the bright moon hung high, and the silver light poured down, draping Carefree Mountain in a layer of misty gauze.
Qin An lightly tapped the knife sheath with his knuckles, stepped out of the wing room, and walked slowly along the corridor.
At the end of the corridor, Yang Qing leaned on an iron whip, looking up at the moon.
Hearing the footsteps, he turned and said, "Mr. Qin, you haven't rested yet?"
Qin An nodded and stopped beside him: "You haven't rested either."
Yang Qing said quietly, "It's always hard to sleep when executing a mission. I look at the moon more, fearing that I might not see it next time."
Qin An shook his head, lightly stroking the sheath of the Cold Star Saber with his fingertips, the chill of the metal seeping into his skin.
After a moment, Yang Qing broke the silence: "Is Qian Yong still in the room?"
Qin An released his fingers and reversed his grip on the knife's handle: "I don't know."
