Of course, the premise of it all was that this young man had not lied—that he truly was Meng Zhao.
But Ji Zhenyun was already inclined to believe it. At the very least, some of the qualities this young man displayed were beyond comparison with those of ordinary geniuses.
Ji Rulin had a rather slow reaction time—or perhaps his mind was simply too rigid. Only now did he react. His aqua-blue eyes flew wide open, and he sprang from his chair, pointing at Meng Zhao.
"You, you, you are Meng Zhao?"
It was not that his reaction was excessive. It was simply hard to imagine that a figure who seemed to belong in legend was standing alive before him. The violent divide between fantasy and reality, then their sudden overlap, made him feel as though he were dreaming.
It was roughly like a person who looked exactly like a huge celebrity appearing at a fan's doorstep and telling that fan he was the celebrity. The fan wanted to believe it, yet it felt too unreal, leaving him half-convinced and half-doubtful.
Meng Zhao did not answer. He merely smiled. He had said all that needed to be said, but asking him to admit it outright was impossible.
Even revealing his identity had been a reckless gamble. If he lost the bet, he would fall into layers upon layers of blockades and traps. Even with his martial arts, the risks would be enormous.
It was easy enough to understand. He should have remained in Lingwu City, commanding tens of thousands of troops, as steady as Mount Tai. Yet now he had personally ventured into Liang Prefecture and gone deep into Hu Mountain. If the Rebel Army learned of this, they would surely spare no cost to capture—or even kill—him.
Once he died,