Xia Fang wore a somber expression that acted as a window into the depths of sorrow she carried within her tiny frame.
Yang Qing had half-prepared himself to wait for minutes—if not longer—as she waded through those emotions. He knew how heavy and suffocating such memories could be, to the point where even speaking about them became an arduous task. To voice them out meant submerging yourself completely in those painful recollections.
Having witnessed his fair share of cultivators sharing the darkest moments of their lives while seated behind his judge's desk, Yang Qing understood how difficult it could be. There were cases where he had sat for hours, waiting for a single testimony because the victim was too broken—or too overwhelmed—to speak.
