Zhao Hun was momentarily at a loss for words. Of course he knew that no matter how peerless Meng Zhao's martial prowess was, without the Meng Family's support, it would have been utterly impossible for him to achieve such dazzling accomplishments in so short a time. Martial force could solve most problems, but not all of them.
In this regard, the Meng Family had indeed done right by Meng Zhao, and by the Meng Family's Second Branch.
If it had been him, he likely would have received the corresponding support and resources as well.
Yet, searching his heart, if he had come to Lingwu City in Meng Zhao's place, he definitely could not have reached Meng Zhao's current heights.
"I do bear hatred in my heart. I do not trust the family, nor do I trust Meng Jizu and Meng Hongdao. But I am still of Meng Family blood. Could I really be inferior to that outsider?"
He did not feel wronged, only consumed by sorrow. From childhood onward, his life had been bleak and dark. To him, kin had never been something to rely upon; instead, they had been like floods and savage beasts. The only happy time in his life might have been the period when his father was still alive.
Now that he had come of age, he wished to return to the family and reclaim all that belonged to him. He had thought that his blood relatives would support and help him, yet what he saw and felt might not turn out as he wished.
He had vaguely come to understand the root cause. It was because that fake, that counterfeit, had performed far too brilliantly—far beyond the limit of what he, a true descendant of the Meng Family, could achieve. Compared against him, he had