Shang Qinghua found his own small room. Exhausted in both body and soul, he persevered and laid out his bedding, then turned around to pour himself a cup of water. But as soon as he turned back, there was another person lying on his bed. In an utter cliché, the new teacup he had just received from the steward’s office dropped from his hands right onto his foot. His legs softened, nearly sending him falling onto his rear. “My king.” Mobei-Jun turned to face him. He was expressionless, but his voice was cold as ice. “You’ll follow me for the rest of your life, hm?”
