Jiang Yang's arrival caused quite a stir. He was an unfamiliar face, and almost no one present recognized him.
He had only just sat down when someone on his right struck up a conversation, her eyes brimming with curiosity:
"May I ask where you hail from, fellow Daoist?"
Jiang Yang turned and found a girl who looked barely in her teens, watching him with her head tilted. Her voice was clear and melodious; even ordinary speech fell upon his ears like jade shattering on Mount Kun, washing the heart clean.
Though she looked young, Jiang Yang dared not treat her as a child. Judging people by their appearance was a grave mistake, so he cupped his hands and replied softly:
"Jiang Yang of the Celestial River Tradition. Greetings, fellow Daoist."
At his answer, the girl turned toward him from her kneeling seat. She wore a flowing immortal gown, its layered skirts shaded with a green haze, with a light gauze patterned with peacock feathers draped over it. A bronze bell hung at her waist. She was so petite that even sitting upright, her head barely rose above the table, making her look for all the world like a cloth doll.
What surprised Jiang Yang most was her face. Not because she was hideous—quite the contrary, she was lovely and pure, with an exceedingly sweet appearance. Yet she clearly did not look like Humankind, prompting him to muse inwardly:
She must be a noble descendant of demonkind...
The girl had a round face, delicate lips, and an exquisite nose, but her almond-shaped eyes held green pupils. Looking closer, he saw a ring of golden sun-wheel markings around them. Beneath her snow-white neck, the fine texture of her skin resembled clusters of pale feathers that had not yet fully shed.
Jiang Yang's