Zhao City.
Luo Ling sat upright in the quiet room, meditating amid the curling fragrance. His face was as still as an ancient well, his eyes gently closed, bearing a trace of sacred indifference and compassion.
These two opposing expressions blended harmoniously on his face. Those who loved him could see compassion, while those who hated him could see indifference and ruthlessness.
This was what it meant for divine grace to be as boundless as the sea, and divine might as fearsome as a prison.
Millions of li away, Luo Zhongkan pressed a finger against his Sacred Mark, and Luo Ling felt it in distant Zhao City. His eyes opened in an instant.
His eyes had once been so deep that anyone looking into them seemed unable to see the bottom, but now they were filled with transparency and clarity.
The Sacred Mark certainly could not be used for conversation, or even to transmit written messages. Otherwise, Luo Zhongkan would not have gone to the trouble of having clansmen risk their lives delivering letters.
But Luo Ling could sense changes in the Sacred Mark.
Although the Sacred Mark had certain peculiar qualities-for instance, anyone who saw one could distinguish the real from the false at a glance-in matters like this, what was special was not the Sacred Mark, but Luo Ling.
Yes, Luo Ling was special. In all the years before him, the Sacred Mark had never possessed such a function. That had only changed with his appearance.
Throughout the Luo Clan's history, whether Luo Su, Luo Cheng, or Luo Xiu, these favored sons of heaven had all been Luo Ling's equals, and had even surpassed him in many respects.
In particular, Luo Ling excelled at schemes and struggles, but was not among the very best at governing a state,