Fan Xian looked at the young man and smiled, but he didn't let the young man see the thoughts he had hidden behind it. He had been standing in the meadow for a while. He had watched the young man walked out of the King's tent and waited for him to gradually come near the patch of the meadow where he stood.
He had to give the young man a chance to strike up a conversation. He knew that since the young man who had walked out from the King's tent, he must have wanted to talk a bit with the merchants from the Central Plain. Making conversation was something Fan Xian was good at. Thinking back, Northern Qi's girl saint Haitang had, in the end, fallen for his clever tongue. How could this young man not do the same?
"Of course it is good," the young man said with a laugh. "Although it is only eight words, the aura of the grasslands is made apparent through them."
