Mount Lu.
The scene.
The air was terrifyingly silent, as if the drop of a needle could be heard.
The literati were as if mourning their ancestors, spiritless and disconcerted, all captured unreservedly by the camera.
They were not simply slapped by Xian Yu, they were struck by the weight of a thunderbolt, each doubting their own existence!
In a daze.
Someone's voice stuttered intermittently, "So he didn't want to compete with us because he wasn't afraid but because he truly felt we weren't worthy..."
Two hundred poems!
Picked at random!
One after another!
Each a classic!
How could such a peerless talent deign to compare with the common folk?
What of "I do not sing of spring first, which insect dares to chirp?"
What of "You may all perish, names and bodies alike, but the rivers flow eternal!"
This was the wrath of Thunderbolt Xian Yu, with poems that almost seemed to scold the literati to their faces, and yet that unparalleled talent left no room for rebuttal!
