The heavy thuds of kowtows echoed through the Scripture Pavilion. Huang Tian kept turning pages as though he had heard nothing.
Seeing no response from Huang Tian, Zhao Changming stayed where he was, still kneeling.
Time passed slowly. Only the rustle of turning pages continued.
Drip...
Beads of sweat seeped from Zhao Changming's body and fell to the floor, splashing into tiny droplets. His back ached, his kneeling legs had gone numb, and his upper body trembled without cease. But a stubborn streak held firm in his heart. He gritted his teeth, made no sound, and endured.
His second elder brother, Zhao Changguang, had not entered the Scripture Pavilion. He watched his younger brother from outside, troubled, and sighed inwardly:
How could someone like him take a disciple on a whim? Besides, people usually take disciples when they're old and want to pass down what they've learned, or when they want to build their reputation and gain wealth. But Thousand-Household Officer Huang is only sixteen or seventeen, and he lacks no cultivation resources. Why would he want a disciple?
He held little hope for his brother's plan to become Huang Tian's disciple, but at this point, he could only let him try.
Shaking his head, he sat on the stone steps outside the pavilion. He braced his hands behind him, leaned back slightly, and gazed at the drifting clouds and clear, boundless sky. A strange sense of peace rose within him.
It was strange because he was sitting at ease inside a great sect with seven hundred years of history—and that sect had only just been destroyed!
All was silent. A gentle breeze blew from the back mountain, carrying a trace of coolness. Zhao Changguang found himself growing drowsy.
Tap, tap...
A burst of hurried footsteps jolted Zhao Changguang awake.