Xing Yu stood still, unmoving. Dust clung to his boots, wind shifting dry leaves at his feet. He stared down at the old man who now refused to look him in the eye.
He didn't know what else to do anymore.
He, a general of the third celestial battalion, once bowed to by empires, was now being insulted, spat on—by Jian's adopted grandfather. And he couldn't even fight back.
He couldn't force the man.
Xing Yu's jaw tightened. His pale gaze grew colder.
"Is he safe?" he asked quietly. "He was badly injured. Was the bleeding under control?"
The old man's eyes darted sideways. "I… I don't know what you're talking about."
"I saw you get into that car with him." His voice remained calm, but a tremor of urgency seeped through. "He is heavily injured and needs help. He lost too much blood."
There was a pause.
