For a moment, the world around Hua Jing vanished.
The arrow was buried deep in Zhao Yan's chest, its fletching trembling with every ragged breath he took. Blood spread across the pale marble like a blooming flower, staining the white steps in vivid red.
Hua Jing stood there, rooted in place, her mind blank with shock.
She couldn't hear the gasps of the crowd, couldn't see the confusion and horror etched into every face around her. All she could see was the arrow—black as night—jutting from Zhao Yan's chest. All she could hear was the faint, wet gasp of his breathing.
No.
The word formed in her mind, a desperate denial that grew louder and louder until it was a scream that threatened to tear her apart.
No. No, no, no!
This couldn't be happening. This wasn't real. The heavens had already turned against Pei Rong—this was supposed to be the end of their trials, the moment they claimed victory. Zhao Yan was supposed to stand there, tall and proud, the rightful ruler at last.
