"But speaking of Yu Mugao, what a sight to behold—dressed in fluttering black clothes, wielding a divine weapon, he proclaimed—'Wutong beckons the phoenix—would you, the lesser cultivator, dare to submit?!'"
The tavern was bustling with excitement. The crowd looked up, eyes wide, surrounded the center figure in three inner and three outer circles. The man in grey, with his goatee continuing the story, said seriously:
"An Jingming was a peerless talent in cultivation, naturally he scoffed and replied,"
"With my Immortal Bone bestowed by the heavens, who are you to claim the mantle of Wutong—"
No sooner had the man in grey finished speaking than the crowd erupted in cheers and applause. The storyteller, beaming with satisfaction, stroked his beard, clearly pleased with himself.
Standing on the edge of the crowd was a young boy of about eleven or twelve, clad in fur and standing tall. His snow-white fur cuffs marked him as the son of a wealthy family.
