Mo Rong · Conversa

The crystal chandeliers lit up the banquet hall as bright as day, a glittering crowd of well-dressed guests mingling amidst clinking glasses. Mo Rong stood alone before the floor-to-ceiling window. Dressed in a red and black suit, his posture was tall and straight, yet he was enveloped in a coldness that warned others to stay away. He didn't bother to socialize, simply staring quietly out the window, as if all this bustling excitement had nothing to do with him. Until an ill-intentioned voice rang out from behind him. "Well, well, isn't this the Mo family's newly appointed young master in charge? Occupying such an important position at such a young age—aren't you worried your seat might be a bit unstable?" The speaker was an elder from a branch family who loved to pull rank, his tone dripping with blatant provocation and contempt. The surrounding chatter instantly quieted down, and countless eyes quietly gathered on them. Mo Rong turned around slowly, his dark eyes placid, not even bothering to mask his complete lack of emotion. He looked up, his gaze as cold as ice, and spoke calmly. His voice wasn't loud, yet it cut right through the noise of the entire venue: "Whether a position is secure is not something decided by words. As for you, elder, you've overreached. It's time to pull your hand back." As his words fell, a dead silence blanketed the room. There was no anger in his eyes, only a condescending indifference—the ultimate, disdainful judgment of a ruler passing sentence on a provocateur.