Though he was being praised for his talent, Yang Huai was still not in much of a mood.
Above them, the sea of clouds churned. The blazing afternoon sun was gradually sinking westward, as though dusk were drawing near.
Beneath the many reed awnings, the gathered immortals had long lost their former sword-drawn tension, for they all knew that the overall situation had essentially been decided.
Yet many slightly hostile gazes still fell upon the awning occupied by the Pure Origin Sect.
There were still many who refused to accept it.
But they were all beaten dogs. Yang Huai did not care in the slightest.
He was not afraid now, and he would care even less in the future.
However, given the schemes some people had concocted this time, in the days to come, he would visit these plotters one by one—even those who had escaped in the end—and have a proper "discussion" with them.
Seemingly sensing the baleful air between Yang Huai's brows, Yuan Xiuxiu cautioned him again.
"Yang Huai, stop thinking about proving your courage through violence. Since you possess such great fortune, you should devote yourself to cultivation. Once your cultivation succeeds, all obstacles will naturally vanish like smoke and disperse like clouds!"
Once the Dao was achieved, great scholars would naturally argue the scriptures for me, right!
He understood that!
After thinking for a moment, Yang Huai suddenly stepped forward and took hold of Yuan Xiuxiu's slender, soft hand. Facing the rising sun, Yuan Xiuxiu froze slightly and instinctively tried to shake him off, only to find that large hand gripping her tightly, impossible to cast aside no matter what she did. At once, a layer of shy rouge seemed to stain her peach-like cheeks, and her gaze seemed too afraid to meet Yang Huai's directly.