"Who would have thought that in my lifetime, I'd get the chance to see something from a story unfold right before my eyes? That's the kind of fate you might not cultivate even over several lifetimes."
Father Zhao said with a smile.
Beside him, Mother Zhao wore a smile as she listened quietly, one hand clasped tightly with Father Zhao's. The two of them nestled together on the sofa. Even at a time like this, they were still flaunting their affection—at least, that was how Zhao Xiaoxiang saw it.
For Father Zhao and Mother Zhao, though, this was simply their daily routine.
Of course, they were not some legendary model couple, like the kind portrayed on television—never arguing, always communicating perfectly. In their early years, the two of them had quarreled quite a lot as well.
But as time passed and they grew older, they had gradually learned to fit together better and better. In every respect, they became increasingly alike, and their conflicts naturally faded away without a trace.
Beside them sat Zhao Cheng's uncle and aunt. They too leaned against each other, though they were nowhere near as lovey-dovey as Father Zhao and Mother Zhao, holding hands despite being so old. As for Zhao Xiaoxiang, Zhao Manyun, Zhao Dong, and the other younger generation, they were all seated at the far end.
Even though Zhao Xiaoxiang was now a Saint of her generation, with one foot across the threshold of Mythology, and could suppress all the heroes of the Civilization Council with a single sweep of her gaze, in this family, the younger generation was still the younger generation.
It was not as if being good with a sword meant she could leap directly from junior to ancestor.
Mentally, however, Zhao Cheng's uncle and aunt were doing somewhat