Lanling watched as Haruki knelt on one knee, their eyes locked the entire time. His movements were neither hurried nor hesitant, but the sight alone was enough to send heat rushing through Lanling's veins.
He inhaled sharply, forcing himself back to composure.
As he exhaled, his hand moved with quiet finality—lifting his mask and removing it.
A ripple of gasps spread through the crowd, but Lanling barely registered them. Instead, he handed the mask to Mainu, feeling only the cool breeze that wrapped around him in its place.
It was refreshing, grounding.
His expression softened, and the crowd barely had time to recover before another wave of shock swept over them.
Haruki wasn't faring much better. His pulse quickened, his face felt warm, but he held steady.
Then—
Shing
The silver jian slid free from its scabbard, its polished blade catching the light.
Haruki's breath hitched.
That sword belonged in Lanling's hand. There was no doubt about it.
