At the summit of Mount Tai was a man in a brocade robe with purplish-black borders. He sat alone at the edge of a cliff. Before him were stones that seemed to have been cut by a sword. They were as flat as a stage. There were two wine cups on it, along with a porcelain pot of wine.
He poured himself wine and drank from it. He seemed incredibly satisfied with his life.
It had been a few months since anyone had last seen him. That man of few words had a cold face with a hint of age. There was a third-echelon divine weapon that countless martial artists longed for lying casually against the stone stage.
The man stared beyond the cliff expressionlessly and drank cup after cup. His robes fluttered madly against the wind as if he was about to be blown off the cliff at any moment and fly with the wind.
Quite a number of people had already arrived at the area, but they remained in the distance.
No one dared get closer.
