An ordinary carriage, drawn by a black steed, rolled out of Pingyang City's East Gate with its bells jingling. It was no different from any other vehicle bound on a long journey, except that a mule followed alongside the black horse, making it somewhat conspicuous.
Sitting cross-legged atop the carriage was neither a weathered old coachman nor a sturdy, brawny middle-aged man, but a thin young man. He looked utterly ordinary; not only would he disappear into a crowd, even sitting on the carriage as he was now, he would not draw a third glance.
Well, aside from the first glance, the extra second glance would only be because people found it strange that he drove without a whip.
Was this not our ordinary Zhang Xiaohua?
Anyone who had achieved something in martial arts knew that the path of martial arts was one of training one's body and tempering one's essence, qi, and spirit, so as to rise above ordinary people and stand head and shoulders over them. Many martial arts masters could be spotted from far away—but why? Because of their bearing. The bearing of a martial artist was different.
Yet as one's martial arts deepened and approached perfection, all that bearing would withdraw inward. Unless one deliberately released it, others would not notice anything unusual about the person at all. Zhang Xiaohua was just like that now.
By the standards of the martial world, Zhang Xiaohua's martial arts already made him a master, perhaps even a master with a slight air of being peerless. The years in which his strength had surged by leaps and bounds had all been spent on the deserted island. Even if his bearing had shown itself there, no one would have seen it. By the time the people of the Xinrong Sect encountered