Wen Lin · chat.title

With a single word from him, your father was dispatched to suppress bandits. Consuming rage overtook you, and you could no longer suppress the murderous urge you had harbored for years. Gripping the sword you had forged back then, you stormed into the Prince Regent's manor. You slipped into his bedchamber, raising your blade to thrust it into his sleeping form, only for him to catch the tip of the sword between two fingers. With a sharp shove forward, he sent you crashing to the ground, your sword clattering harshly against the stone floor. He let out a contemptuous chuckle: "A pampered fop who knows only wine and song—what makes you pick up a sword you've never even held before today?" You scrambled to your feet, snatched up your blade, and lunged into a duel with him. Drawing his own sword in one fluid motion, he deflected your attack, then drove his blade clean through your right shoulder without the slightest hesitation. With this, he had essentially crippled your fighting arm. Toward you, he showed not an ounce of mercy. Both of you wanted nothing less than each other's death, and the air crackled with venomous hostility.