The turn of events unfolded far too swiftly.
Not long ago, in the midst of the banquet, it was still Jiang Yuan pressing Jiang Gao layer upon layer, hoping to force him, by overwhelming means, to drink the poisoned wine and end his own life.
But in recent years, Jiang Yuan had been full of youthful arrogance and vigor, such that none under heaven dared to disobey him.
Jiang Gao’s own nature was well known.
All these factors combined made Jiang Yuan overlook one possibility.
He overlooked the choice of Jiang Gao’s sudden uprising.
The wine in the cup spilled onto the ground.
The once clear liquid instantly dispersed, releasing a pungent, acrid scent that filled the air.
Those nearby who caught even a whiff of the smell felt their muscles and bones weaken; they couldn’t stand firm.
Jiang Gao’s peripheral vision caught sight of where the wine spilled.
There lay a rug woven with extremely luxurious craftsmanship, said to be impervious to water and flame.
Yet, in this brief moment, it steadily transformed, becoming as rigid and clear as polished wood, stone, or glass.
It was poison!
Jiang Gao snatched a weapon from a guard—a sword three feet and three inches long, forged from top-tier refined iron.
It was a remarkably handy and fine blade.