In the country of Nanqian, inside the residence of the Prime Minister.
The red Zelkova wood is ablaze, crackling loudly.
The burning flame, shockingly, is blood red!
This is a curse of death, the best medium to carry it.
Wen Zhongyong's gaze sharp, one hand holding the ruler of the nation, the other a whisk.
"Within the span of ten thousand miles, gods yet fear to die!"
"Curse!"
With his voice, the blood-red flame on the Zelkova wood sprang up almost two feet high.
The red firelight reflected on Wen Zhongyong and Sima Ting's faces, making them look particularly eerie.
Sima Ting stood by, his beard quivering. He was somewhat excited, "What's the situation, sir?"
Wen Zhongyong held the ruler of the country, speaking calmly, "The curse of death has been cast, just wait for a moment, and blood will be seen."