Everyone knew that if Zhu Xie Chiri truly arrived safely in Lingwu City, conflict with Meng Zhao was inevitable.
The relationship between the two was almost foreseeable.
Perhaps not utterly incompatible as fire and water, but for them to get along harmoniously, like fish in water, was simply impossible.
Under such circumstances, Meng Zhao claiming he had sought Zhu Xie Chiri's guidance in troop deployment, formations, and commanding armies was nothing but a joke. He was merely taking advantage of the fact that Zhu Xie Chiri was already dead and unable to speak.
Seemingly deeply displeased by Meng Zhao's glib manner, Gu Ziling snorted coldly and said pointedly,
"General Zhu Xie is dead. Clan Head Meng must be very happy, shouldn't he? How could you possibly be genuinely saddened by General Zhu Xie's misfortune?
"Besides, with Clan Head Meng's martial arts, it may not be impossible for you to accomplish what only a Grandmaster can."
Although that Grandmaster expert of the Beitang Imperial Clan had judged the murderer's strength, Gu Ziling still harbored suspicions toward Meng Zhao. It was not merely that Meng Zhao was suspicious; Gu Ziling had also formed a preconceived impression.
A person's likes and dislikes were sometimes utterly unreasonable. One glance was enough—if one liked someone, one liked them; if one disliked someone, one disliked them. And without question, Gu Ziling absolutely disliked Meng Zhao.
He had not deliberately lowered his voice. Everyone present, to be fair, possessed no weak internal cultivation and heard every word clearly. The atmosphere shifted once more, and some looked at Gu Ziling with peculiar expressions in their eyes.
There was admiration, regret, and respect. In such circumstances, no one had expected him to still dare challenge Meng Zhao.
After all, in many people's eyes, Gu Ziling had no particularly deep