Splash, splash.
Zhongli Yan seemed to hear two kinds of ocean waves.
One was outside the window, roaring along the road they had come by, quite distant.
The other was somewhere even farther away, beyond the reach of his ears.
At first, he thought it was merely an auditory hallucination. He always remembered that he and Zhuge Zuo were still treading the waves of the East Sea, him dragging along that solemn little brat as they dueled wits and courage over who was truly the leader of the group.
Sea winds that roared for ten thousand miles, waves towering like mountains, great fish hundreds of zhang long... The Southern Regions had many mountains and lay far from the sea; everything was free and fresh.
That little brat... how had he suddenly died?
How was Uncle Zhongli supposed to hold his head high from now on?
He could not even protect a child!
When he had first entered the Transcendence Urn, he had been arrogant. Once he realized Zhuge Zuo's fate, all desire to swagger vanished, leaving only an endless... oppression.
That so-called "pent-up will, burdens piled upon the heart"—he had always considered it the sour whining of feeble scholars.
If something sat wrong in his heart, he drew his sword and cut it down. If the road was uneven, he drew his sword and carved it open. If he could not win, he risked his life cultivating, then came back and won. A fine man should gaze over the world like an eagle and strike through the vast skies—what was there to brood over!
But little Zhuge Zuo had died.
Walking right beside him, he had died in silence.
The little thing had chosen to die. Who was he supposed to draw his sword against?
The Southern Peak Sword in