Chapter 11:
Gift
THEY CROSSED the arched bridge and arrived at Wotian Sanctum. The realm within was extremely spacious, several times bigger than Woqing Sanctum, with magnificent structures throughout. Pavilions, towers, and mansions were interconnected by bridges and upturned eaves, and mountain mists swirled majestically around all of it. Dancing cranes completed the breathtaking sight.
As soon as they stepped through, Yanlie’s disciple came up to welcome them. “The banquet is being held in the Windsurf Pavilion to the east. This way, please.”
Sword riding wasn’t permitted in the three sanctums, so they had to walk—which saved Mo Tianliao, who couldn’t fly yet, from losing face.
The Windsurf Pavilion was a spacious open-air pavilion nestled among the flowers. A lot of long, low tables had been set up inside, and quite a few people had already taken their seats. At the front was a slightly raised stone platform, which was clearly meant for Yanlie.
Yanlie was the eldest personal disciple of Tianlang-zhenren, the sect leader, and he held the highest status among all the first-generation disciples. He was a genius with a fire-element heaven attribute.
Typically, grand celebrations weren’t held for birthdays when the elders were still around, but Yanlie was well-liked, and several of his fellow disciples had insisted on throwing him a banquet. He had recently succeeded in breaking through to the nascent soul stage, besides, and the sect leader had been so delighted that he’d given his consent.
The disciple directed Mo Tianliao to the foremost jade table. “Your seat is the first on the east side.”
Mo Tianliao nodded and walked over.
The silver patterns on his black silk robes were rather conspicuous in the sunlight, but the rest of his black outfit seemed to absorb all the light. He gave off an indescribably oppressive aura. The moment he entered, the lively hall fell silent. Ignoring their reaction, Mo Tianliao made a beeline for his seat, lifted the hem of his robe, and sat down.
Xuanji-zhenren’s personal disciples had yet to arrive; only the sect leader’s personal disciples were present so far. Each one carried himself with dignity and composure. When they saw Mo Tianliao, they nodded in greeting.
The hall livened up again, and the second-generation disciples sitting in the back began to whisper.
“I can’t believe it’s him!”
“Who’s that? He’s so imposing.”
“Haven’t you heard? He’s the personal disciple Qingtong-zhenren just took. Apparently he was chosen because he’s handsome.”
Mo Tianliao poured himself a cup of wine from the jade teapot before him and took a sip. Sweet, aromatic, and rich in spiritual energy; this was an excellent wine.
Suwen sat at the table behind Mo Tianliao and introduced the first-generation disciples to him in hushed tones.
The sect leader had five personal disciples. Beside Yanlie, two others were present today: Zimo, the baby-faced second disciple dressed in purple; and Bailuo, the steely-looking third disciple dressed in white.
“Moxiong, his fourth disciple, is out training with my shifu,” Suwen explained. “And Langzi, the fifth disciple, is still young, so he doesn’t participate in these banquets.”
Mo Tianliao nodded slightly and looked at the two people sitting on either side of him.
Yanlie was certainly well-versed in etiquette. He’d given Mo Tianliao the frontmost seat while his two juniors took the less-honorary seats—this was a show of respect to Woqing Sanctum. The row of seats opposite him was clearly reserved for Xuanji’s disciples.
Zimo was seated beside him, and he seemed rather hyperactive. When he saw Mo Tianliao approach, he couldn’t resist striking up a conversation. “I’m Zimo, Tianlang-zhenren’s second disciple. You can call me Zimo-shixiong or Zi-shixiong. How may I address you?”
“Greetings, Shixiong. I’m Mo Tianliao,” Mo Tianliao answered warmly.
“Then I’ll call you Mo-shidi from now on!” Zimo looked very happy. “This is so much better. Don’t ever take after your eldest shixiong. He’s always so fierce.”
Mo Tianliao smiled and said nothing.
Zimo elbowed his junior, Tianlang-zhenren’s third disciple. “Xiao-Bai, say hello!”
“Greetings, Bai-shixiong!” Mo Tianliao cupped his hands in greeting.
Bailuo carefully put down his wine cup, looked over slowly, paused for a moment, and raised his hands in a greeting. “Greetings, I’m Bailuo.” Mo Tianliao was startled; Bailuo had a soft, weak voice that was very much at odds with his dashing appearance.
“Here, let’s toast to our first formal meeting today, since we didn’t get to do it at the grand hall the last time!” Zimo topped up Mo Tianliao’s cup, and Mo Tianliao reciprocated by refilling Zimo and Bailuo’s cups as well. The trio toasted, instantly warming up the atmosphere. Of course, that warm atmosphere was basically just Zimo chattering nonstop to Mo Tianliao, while Bailuo quietly drank by himself and occasionally glanced over to listen to their conversation.
As they chatted, Xuanji-zhenren’s disciples made a grand entrance.
Xuanji-zhenren had the most disciples—over ten—but only three were his personal disciples; the rest were just ordinary disciples.
Of the three sanctum-masters, Xuanji was most fond of taking in disciples, but he had a mercurial temperament. Often, he would happily accept them only to lose interest a couple of days later and relegate them to being ordinary disciples instead.
The group walked over, led by a tall, slender man in a multicolored outfit: a long dark green robe topped by a dark red outer robe and secured with a bright yellow belt. He was pretty, with delicate features.
“Hey, Huaqing, not wearing that fancy butterflies among flowers dress today?” Zimo shouted at him.
The man promptly stumbled. “Shut up!” he hissed back through gritted teeth. “It’s not a dress!”
“Where’s Yuan-shixiong and Yu-shidi?” Zimo turned to introduce the newcomers to Mo Tianliao. The one leading the group was Huaqing, Xuanji-zhenren’s second disciple and a flamboyant dresser, while those following behind him were forgettable ordinary disciples or disciples without confirmed status.