The moment they stepped into the grand ceremonial hall, a wave of murmurs surged around them like crashing tides. Many whispered idly about cultivation breakthroughs or the latest alchemical trends.
Others—more politically inclined—exchanged pleasantries with subtle undertones of scheming, eager to weave connections under the veiled façade of this so-called joyous occasion.
Casanova exhaled dramatically beside Zheng Xie, dragging a hand down his face. "Ahh… just breathing the same stale, scheming air as them is making me dizzy. I can feel my inner demons acting up already. I fear I might combust, tear off my robes, and start slaughtering these clowns like a mad cultivator on his tribulation day."
Zheng Xie cast him a sideways glance, his face unmoved. "With your temperament, it wouldn't surprise me if you actually did. But do try to restrain yourself. I'd rather not create a massacre on a night as politically sensitive as this. The sooner this parade ends, the sooner I can vanish from this place."
Grinning, Casanova wrapped an arm around his neck and leaned in like a clingy wife. "Aww, look at us—two antisocial soulmates suffering together. I'll do my best to play nice, but no promises. Still, I should inform you… your so-called rival has already begun moving his pieces on the board."
Zheng Xie followed the direction of his finger. There, bathed in the glow of spirit lamps, stood a striking duo.
Ling Xue—silver-white hair cascading like moonlight, her deep blue eyes as cold as a winter lake—stood conversing with a tall, broad-shouldered man. His long emerald hair flowed like wildfire, and his blood-red eyes exuded a dangerous, smoldering confidence.
Li Hao.
The Sword Immortal.
A walking embodiment of pride, strength, and elegance—all the things the world adored in a 'hero.'
Casanova whispered close to his ear, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Well then, Mask~ What shall you do now? Would you like me to make a move? Perhaps spill some wine on his thousand-year silk robe or whisper something scandalous into the ears of a gossip-hungry maiden?"
Zheng Xie calmly unhooked himself from Casanova's arms, adjusting his robes with deliberate care. His voice, however, was cold and distant. "There is no need for that yet. This dance has only just begun. When the time comes, you'll know. Until then, enjoy the food, the music, or hide in a corner and act antisocial—whichever suits your instincts best."
Casanova gave an exaggerated sigh, rubbing his chin. "So boring. But I suppose I'll comply. Still, if anything interesting happens, do call for me. I'd rather not miss the beginning of a tragic love triangle turned battlefield. But enough about me, what about you? What are you going to do?"
Zheng Xie merely pointed toward the elevated stage at the front of the hall.
There, from behind translucent pearl curtains, emerged five dignified figures: his mother Mei Xiu, her violet robes embroidered with blossoms; his father Tianren, stern and regal as always, draped in black and gold robes; and behind them—his siblings.
Without another word, Zheng Xie walked toward the stage. He positioned himself beside his elder brother, Shuheng.
Shuheng was a mountain of a man. Clad in a golden robe etched with twin serpents, his tall frame emanated authority. Though his expression was unreadable, his mere presence silenced the murmurs of those nearby.
"You're looking good today," Zheng Xie murmured under his breath, offering a faint smile. "Like a spitting image of father in his prime."
Shuheng gave a slight nod, never breaking his stoic facade. Behind them, Baotong and Yanyue stood stiffly, eyes darting across the hall.
Zheng Xie glanced back and leaned closer. "You two are acting as if you're being led to an execution. Don't worry, these people here won't focus on you two that much. It's Brother Shuheng's night."
Baotong forced a nervous chuckle. "Brother, you say that, but there are so many people here. And not just anyone—the great pillars of the Central Continent themselves are among the audience. You expect us not to be terrified?"
Zheng Xie's gaze turned cold.
"Do not cower."
His voice dropped into a low whisper—sharp, steady.
"Do not tremble in front of prestige. Do not allow power to define your spine. You are not livestock being paraded. If you can't even stand proudly in front of a few names, how do you plan to walk the path of cultivation?"
Baotong fell silent, his shoulders stiffening.
Zheng Xie continued, his eyes sweeping the hall.
"Remember this. Weakness is not tolerated in any corner of this world. If you show your back now, others will not hesitate to carve their names onto it. You are a Zheng—never forget that. And more than that… you are you. Your worth is not decided by their gaze, but by your blade, your path, and your strength."
Yanyue gulped but gave a faint nod.
Zheng Xie took a step back, his expression placid as he straightened his back.
Then, a voice resounded—deep, commanding, and filled with a natural authority.
"Greetings, fellow Daoists!" Tianren's voice thundered through the grand hall, effortlessly spreading to every corner. "This old one's heart swells with pride to see such esteemed guests gathered under one roof today, each of you taking precious time from your cultivation, your duties, your heavenly paths, to offer blessings to my son."
A round of applause burst forth—refined, coordinated. Though spontaneous in appearance, it carried the grace of years of tradition, of courtly rituals and the silent understanding of Central Continent's highest echelons.
The cheers followed—measured, yet filled with sincerity. Tianren's expression remained composed, yet those with keen eyes noticed the faint lift of his brows—satisfaction hidden beneath solemn dignity.
"The Zheng Clan," he continued, his voice now slower but heavier, "has stood as the pillar of justice for this continent since the time of our forefathers. Be they righteous, demonic, soul or mortal, all know of the Zheng name."
There was no arrogance in his tone, only cold, resounding truth.
"We have hunted the demonic, subdued the wicked. We have not feared wars if they were needed for peace. We have not spared ourselves for the sake of the people. And today—today, my son… Shuheng, shall step into this mantle."
His gaze shifted toward the youth in golden-white robes, his form straight, his expression tranquil. A subtle nod from the patriarch was all it took.
Shuheng returned the gesture and walked forward, the hem of his robe dragging softly against the polished jade floor. He paused beside him, eyes scanning the crowd. They held no fear. No arrogance. Only calm conviction.
Taking a deep breath, he began. "I, Shuheng, son of Tianren and Mei Xiu, do hereby swear on my Dao Heart."
He placed his palm against his chest. The cultivators all instinctively tensed, for a Dao Heart was no simple thing—it was the spiritual backbone of a cultivator's path. To swear upon it was to gamble one's future.
"I vow to protect the Central Continent, to uphold justice and righteousness not as mere ideals, but as truths etched into my very marrow. If ever I should falter in my conviction—if even a sliver of hesitation pollutes my heart—I shall cripple myself and abandon the path."
Silence followed, like the quiet that descends upon a mountaintop after a lightning strike.
And then, the roar returned.
"Long live the Zheng Clan!"
"Glory to Tianren!"
"The most righteous family of the Central Continent!"
"The Pillar of Justice! May it never fall!"
Praise erupted like a tide. From wandering sages to family elders, from sect representatives to war generals, their voices overlapped in a resounding chorus that shook the very foundations of the ancestral hall.
Tianren allowed himself a small smile—brief, almost imperceptible. But then, with a single motion of his raised hand, the hall fell still once more.
"Silence," he said. And silence obeyed.
The entire hall held its breath, the gathered elites eager, curious, wary of what would come next.
Tianren's eyes gleamed faintly. "Now that Shuheng has sworn his oath and been recognized as the Zheng Clan's heir, this old one has another matter to present. One that is... perhaps of even greater interest to certain guests."
The entire hall started murmuring again, speculating, questioning and reasoning. But all of them maintained a solemn and calm attitude at front.
Tianren chuckled lightly. "There's no need to hide your curiosity. I, Tianren, make this declaration not as a patriarch but as a father—I humbly request the hand of the princess of the Ling Family… for my son, Zheng Xie."
Gasps swept the hall. Even the lowest-tier cultivators among the crowd felt the temperature shift. The air grew thick with tension and anticipation.
Several eyes subtly turned toward a certain table—toward a man with silvery hair and eyes darker than obsidian streaked with frost.
Patriarch Ling Kong.
The man's gaze remained still. Cold, reserved, yet no less noble. A man born of ice and storm. His expression betrayed nothing, but the twitch of his fingers against the armrest revealed more than he wished.
But before he, or anyone else, could respond—
Zheng Xie stepped forward.
His presence didn't announce itself with grandeur. Yet somehow, every eye was drawn to him.
Zheng Xie cupped his fists, then took a long, respectful bow.
"Uncle Ling Kong," his voice was calm and unhurried, each word brushing the air like flowing silk, "I understand that you must be perplexed… confused, perhaps even infuriated that someone like me would dare to request the hand of your daughter."
He raised his head slowly, eyes unwavering.
Ling Kong, narrowed his eyes slightly. Then, with a controlled breath, he rose to his feet.
"Do not mistake me, son of Tianren," Ling Kong said, voice steady and clear. "I do not harbor such thoughts. I am merely surprised…" He paused, eyes faintly narrowing, "I was unaware your affections for my daughter ran so… deep."
Zheng Xie smiled softly, a smile that neither betrayed pride nor shame. It held sincerity.
"Uncle," he spoke, not as a brash youth, but as someone really sincere, "this one has been courting your daughter for two and a half years. Surely, you must have known. But perhaps… you dismissed it. Perhaps you believed I was trifling with her, playing with her feelings like some spoiled young master."
He inhaled deeply, then took a step forward and gazed directly into Ling Kong's sharp eyes.
"But I have admired your daughter from the very bottom of my heart. Even the deepest abyss of the Endless Ocean could not compare to the depth of my affection. Lately, vile rumors have begun to spread. That I was unfaithful. That I cheated on Ling Xue. That I led another woman astray."
His eyes darkened for a moment, then cleared again with resolution.
"All of it—lies. Slander. In my heart, there is only Ling Xue. Always has been, always will be."
He stepped back once more, cupped his fists again, and bowed even lower than before.
"To prove my sincerity, to cast aside all doubts and wash away all falsehood—I, Zheng Xie, today wish to formally request her hand in marriage."
There was a hush. Not just silence, but a breathless anticipation. Even the servants halted. Several elders nearby exchanged glances. Some were amused. Others intrigued.
Ling Kong's expression did not shift, but a subtle glint passed through his eyes.
He slowly turned, his gaze sweeping the crowd like a judge. Then, his eyes found the one he sought.
Ling Xue.
She stood away from the crowd, her head bowed, hands clenched at her sides. And beside her, standing much too close, was a tall youth with emerald-green hair and blood-red eyes.
Li Hao.
Ling Kong smiled faintly. It wasn't warm.
'Another suitor… I could use Li Hao to deny the marriage. That's useful.'
He stroked his beard, already forming plans. 'Li Hao is considered a Sword Immortal. If he challenged Zheng Xie for Ling Xue's hand then surely he would kill or defeat him. But whether or not she would marry him remains another mystery… hahahaha.'
With a pensive expression, Ling Kong approached Zheng Xie and placed a heavy hand on his shoulder.
"Child," he said with a sigh that didn't quite reach his chest, "I understand what you feel. I can see the sincerity in your eyes. But I am merely a father. In such matters, I cannot decide alone. My daughter's heart is her own, and I cannot chain it."
Then, his tone lightened ever so slightly. "And you see… you are not the only one pursuing her. There are others, and some… not so willing to step aside."
His eyes briefly flicked to Li Hao.
Zheng Xie didn't respond immediately.
Instead, he smiled, a smile without light.
Then, calmly, he leaned close to Ling Kong and whispered—so low only he could hear:
"The gift you've prepared for my brother… it's quite generous, Uncle Ling Kong."
Ling Kong's pupils trembled. A flicker of something dangerous passed through his gaze.
'He knows? That shouldn't be possible. Is he bluffing? No… I was careful. No one outside—'
Before he could say anything, Zheng Xie had already turned.
His steps were slow, but confident, as he approached Ling Xue. She stood there, still unmoving, still bowing her head in shame. The attention of the entire gathering weighed down on her.
Without hesitation, Zheng Xie reached out and took her hand in his.
Softly, so only she could hear, he spoke.
"Xue'er. Straighten your back. You've done nothing wrong. There is nothing to be ashamed about. This moment… this is the moment to choose your path. To speak what truly lives in your heart."
His grip was gentle, yet firm.
He glanced sideways, meeting the hostile gaze of Li Hao. The green-haired youth was clenching his fists, killing intent dancing in his eyes like wildfire.
Zheng Xie ignored it, and continued.
"Whether it's me… or someone else."
His words hung in the air like falling snow, soft, cold, and lonely.
Ling Xue's eyes widened. Something stirred within them—clarity, perhaps, or the return of forgotten courage. She looked at her father, then at Zheng Xie.
Her lips parted, ready to speak.
But before even a syllable could escape—
"Stop!!"
A thunderous roar erupted like a landslide.
It was Li Hao.
His face twisted, no longer calm or dignified, but contorted in rage. The jade teacups on nearby tables cracked under the weight of his voice. Several cultivators flinched, their souls trembling.
"You dare touch her before me?! You dare steal her before my eyes?!"
His killing intent surged, and the skies above dimmed faintly, as if responding to his wrath.
But Zheng Xie did not flinch.
Instead, with that same calm, honey-laced voice, he turned his head slightly and muttered—
"…And so the storm begins. Son of Heaven."