"So if I lose, I can't go?"
Chen Changqing rolled his eyes, wearing an expression that said, What is wrong with you?
"What did I just say? That sword strike of yours can kill a True Lord. At the sect tournament, what disciple from any holy land could withstand that strike?"
"I'm sending you not because you can beat me, but because you can beat everyone else."
"Understand?"
Those words were exceedingly overbearing, yet utterly reasonable.
Chen Yuan's grip on the Starfall Sword tightened, then loosened, then tightened again.
He had lived two lives and cultivated for who knew how many tens of thousands of years. When had he ever received such "recognition"? In his previous life, he had cultivated the sword alone, severed every bond, and ultimately stood alone above the clouds, with no one by his side.
And in this life...
"Thank you, Holy Son."
He bowed and performed a standard Mount Shu disciple's salute.
There were no unnecessary words, yet everyone present could clearly see the weight of that bow—at this moment, this sword cultivator who had cultivated through two lifetimes had sincerely lowered his head to Chen Changqing.
Chen Changqing patted him on the shoulder.
"Enough with this empty ceremony. When we have time, we can spar again. Those sword moves of yours are pretty interesting."
Chen Yuan's lips moved, but in the end, he merely nodded.
The expressions on some people's faces became subtle.
Chen Yuan smiled without speaking, while Bai Wuya stroked his chin, clearly unsurprised by this outcome—those who knew Chen Changqing understood that although the boy was arrogant and domineering, he was by no means narrow-minded. He instead showed respect to those who truly had ability.
Daoist Wu Xing let out a long breath of stale air, and his tightly drawn shoulders