The small, symmetrical blades on the sides of the King's Sword in Fang Zhen's hand suddenly retracted, pressing flush against the main blade.
As it changed, Fang Zhen felt a momentary daze, his consciousness detaching.
He felt as if he were floating in the air, watching everything around him transform.
Like a god's eye floating in the sky, he looked down and saw the scene had changed to a magnificent, high-ceilinged medieval banquet hall.
He could see a king-like figure, no older than thirty-three or thirty-four, wearing a Golden Crown and red and gold robes, slumped in a chair at the banquet.
Before the King was a long dining table laden with all sorts of delicacies—roast suckling pig, grilled pigeon, and fine wine in golden goblets.
Jarringly, a black bull's head had been thrown onto the table amidst such a feast. The head, dripping with blood, was a ghastly sight.
A short sword with a gem-studded hilt was embedded in the King's chest.
