The young man appeared to be around twenty-one or twenty-two years old, with a dignified appearance and a slight smile at the corners of his mouth, looking gentle and refined. This young man was Zhi Buyou's son, Zhi Hua.
Today was Zhi Buyou's fiftieth birthday, and nearly all the martial artists with status in the Taihang Mountain Stronghold had attended.
"Good! Good! Good!"
Zhi Buyou's face was withered, his lips thin, and his eyes flickered with cold severity. He wore a black robe that exuded authority and mystery. As the strength of the Taihang Mountain Stronghold grew, the aura around Zhi Buyou was gradually changing.
His previous bandit-like demeanor was slowly fading, and at this moment, he seemed more like a true sect leader.
