Meng Yuanqiao let out a long breath. The terrifying aura that had previously twisted the light and concealed his features now receded, revealing his true face.
He looked like a kindly old man with white hair and beard. Yet his skin was fine and smooth, tender as a baby's; his brows and eyes were handsome, and one could vaguely glimpse the splendor of his youth.
More importantly, Meng Yuanqiao lacked the waning, candle-in-the-wind air of an ordinary old man. Instead, he brimmed with vitality, more vigorous even than a young man in his twenties or thirties.
If not for his white hair and beard, as well as his rather mature bearing, one could easily mistake him for a young man like Zhao Hun.
Seeing Meng Yuanqiao reveal his true face, Zhao Hun was overjoyed. He knew his words had surely moved the other man, which was why Meng Yuanqiao no longer concealed himself but showed his true appearance—an act of closeness and candor.
Meng Yuanqiao could not describe the taste in his heart. There was the desolation of having gained something only to lose it again, anger and hatred at having been deceived, and the helpless unwillingness of hating iron for not becoming steel.
In the end, however, it all became a sigh. He had thought his family possessed a true dragon son who could stand alongside the Shen Family's Kirin Son. Who would have known that it had all been his own wishful thinking? That true dragon son had no connection to the Meng Family at all, while the genuine Meng Family descendant was someone with sinister intentions and a heart full of resentment toward the family.
Then he recalled something.
That day, Prince Yanping had invited the leaders of every faction in Lingwu City as guests. During the