Li Qinghong paused slightly, and already one person soared on the wind, Daoist robe fluttering, clasped his hands together, and bowed:
"Subordinate pays respects to the honored one."
These years had been comfortable for Zong Yan, and just a dozen years with less oppression had changed him completely. His eyes were bright with spirit; though he still bore faint traces of his former servitude and misery as a minion of the Demon Clan, his back was now straight—almost human-like.
Li Qinghong had always been polite. She gave him a brief reply, listening as he fluently recited every expense and detail of the island's affairs from memory.
