The burgeoning new force known as Flame flourished day by day.
In what had once been the prince's reception hall, familiar generals and officials gathered in twos and threes to chat before the meeting, the atmosphere harmonious. The only exception was the Chunyang Disciple, who sat with his eyes closed in quiet meditation, utterly motionless. Not just today—he had been like this every day before. Meanwhile, the young and handsome monk smiled as he exchanged pleasantries, drawing closer to everyone.
The Chunyang Disciple seemed somewhat out of place.
In an era where connections, favors, and sprawling webs of relationships dominated life, being aloof made it easy to become isolated. At best, one might toil bitterly for a lifetime without ever rising; at worst, one might lose one's life. The more backward the civilization, the worse such matters became.
There was a faint hint of showmanship in the young monk's gaze toward the Chunyang cultivator. Chunyang and the Western Teachings had long since torn all pretense apart and fought several battles; there had even been a great war last year. It was already quite remarkable that the two had not started fighting on sight. At the very least, they could maintain a surface-level peace.
There was no shortage of covert strife, and the Chunyang Disciple was usually the one being targeted.
Perhaps seeing his opponent isolated had put him in a good mood, for the young monk stepped forward.
"This humble monk is Chen Jia. We have known each other for many days, yet I still do not know this fellow Chunyang cultivator's honored name."
Many generals and officials in the hall secretly looked their way. Some knew the two sects were on poor terms, while others were simply watching the spectacle, eager to see how the cold-faced Daoist would react.