Old Daoist spoke with a calm expression, as if they were chatting about everyday things.
In his eyes, when he had stood at White Cloud Temple and driven Wang Xian from the sect, he had announced it to the world.
No matter how many hidden complications there were, on the surface, their master-disciple bond had ended.
For Yang Ruolan to drag up old grievances now was simply unreasonable. Or, to put it another way, she was making trouble out of nothing.
Listening to Yang Ruolan and watching the expression on Gongsun Tianyang's face beside her, Old Zhang merely smiled faintly.
It was a feather-light smile, like a flake of snow settling atop the Cang Mountains. That snow could fall on Sword City as lightly as a feather, without stirring so much as a twig on the old pear tree in the courtyard.
How many years had he lived?
He had long since lost count.
Back on the Heavenly Road, he had seen plenty of high-and-mighty bigwigs who lorded their status over everyone. He had also seen more than enough sect elders who barked orders as if the world belonged to them.
The two before him were one pressing him at every turn, the other watching from the opposite bank. The elders of Goddess Palace each had their own schemes, their own game boards.
And he was merely a pawn set on the board.
He understood that even a pawn, once across the river, could stand in for half a chariot. What was more, he had never been a piece that others could move at will.
But he wanted to try.
After breaking through in this shabby tavern, he wanted to see if he could be like Wang Xian, with no trace of that towering mountain called Goddess Palace left in