Xiayan Peak, within the small courtyard.
The Sect Leader, Qi, carried a wooden bucket as usual, feeding the young piglets he was raising.
Feng Yichen lounged idly in a corner, a strand of foxtail grass in his mouth, staring blankly at the sky.
Ever since he was knocked out of the tomb chamber with a single palm strike from the Taoist Ancestor, Feng Yichen's spirit had been gravely injured. The once confident and spirited young man was now nowhere to be found, replaced by a dejected and dispirited version of himself, deeply entrenched in the throes of self-doubt and existential questioning.
He simply couldn't understand it, truly couldn't wrap his head around it.
Where exactly was he inferior to Jiang Shouzhong?
Sure, there might be a *tiny* gap in looks, but in every other aspect, he was leagues ahead, wasn't he?
How could the Taoist Ancestor disregard him so entirely?
