Fu Xian was agape.
In every way he looked at this situation, it shouldn't be like this.
His personality was calm, Yiyuan's wasn't.
He had the patience to cultivate for 300 years, Yiyuan didn't.
He never had a wish to become a hero, Yiyuan did.
"Why?" he asked, looking at the screen.
At this moment, he wasn't able to sit down.
He stood up from his usual calm pavilion seat and walked up.
Going from one pavilion to another, he looked at himself in shock in the pond he passed by.
"This is a joke," he said after the third turn as he looked at the dying Yiyuan.
His commands at the start were clear: cultivate diligently in the family.
Nothing more, nothing less.
There was no talk about becoming better, there was no ideal of strength.
And, the key to everything, the one point he would never have done, "He picked a saber?!"
Now he truly couldn't accept it.
