Above, suspended in the air, were scrolls of golden scripture rotating slowly, endlessly reciting the edicts of the founding forefather.
The Patriarch, Zhao Tianyuan sat alone.
His beard was streaked with silver, yet his skin bore no wrinkle. His presence did not shout like his son's, nor did it conceal itself in silence like his wife's, it simply was, steady and irrefutable, like the weight of mountains.
He did not sit on a throne, the Zhao patriarchs did not need thrones, they sat on stone.
The same cold immortal slab passed down through twelve hundred thousand years of bloodline. It was said that if an unworthy heir sat upon it, their spiritual core would crack and bleed.
Patriarch Tianyuan sat upon it as easily as breathing.
While he was cultivating, sitting in lotus position, gathering the spiritual aura, he sensed her approach long before she passed the ceremonial archway.
Her footsteps were soft, her Qi was restrained, her heartbeat calm.
