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... room wasn’t loud, yet the quiet buzz of voices, clinking silverware, and the occasional ripple of polite laughter formed a strange sort of symphony—one that didn’t play music, but power.
Lin Feng sat at a long rosewood table under the muted glow of antique chandeliers. Around him, members of the Crimson Circle conversed in half-sentences and practiced smiles. It wasn’t a dinner—it was a chessboard disguised with wine glasses and velvet napkins.
Xu Shanyue, dressed in a red cheong ...
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