Hearing a shout from the mountain path, the old man in the pavilion burst into silent laughter.
Left with no choice, he picked up the teapot and refilled the two cups with spirit tea.
For some reason, seeing that this demonic king–like fellow had actually spared the women of the East Sea—even after flicking the spirit sword from Nangong Qingqing's hand—the old man felt much more at ease.
Who said the mountain path had to be a place of robbery and slaughter?
As long as Wang Xian was willing, passing cultivators could get through without bloodshed.
Compared to dying on the spot after suffering grievous injuries, what did the reputation of East Sea Flying Immortal Island matter?
Watching Wang Xian flick Nan Qingqing's spirit sword away, the old man understood that if this fellow wished, he could cause an avalanche across the Kunlun Mountains with a single sword, burying countless corpses—and it would probably take no more than the snap of his fingers.
Yet he could not understand why the elegant young man from the legends, who wore a jade hairpin, dressed in blue robes, and carried a spirit sword, had become the six-foot-tall demon king standing before him.
However, when the old man heard Wang Xian say that this batch of pills was still lacking a little heat, he seemed to understand something again.
Guarding the pot of tea as it finished brewing and watching Wang Xian refine pills, the old man fell silent and said nothing.
After who knew how long, he saw Wang Xian take out a scroll of Buddhist scripture and hold it in his hands to read. Only then did the old man become inexplicably astonished.
Unable to hold back, he asked, "They say refining pills is the most dangerous thing of all. I never