Return of the Immortal Emperor Daddy novel Chapter 368

As an idea came to him, Mr. Xu immediately shook his head. "No, not like that. We can't do it that way. You have to listen to me."

Seeing this, Mr. Nie wanted nothing more than to walk over and slap him. "Listen to you?" he sneered. "No, shouldn't we listen to Wu Tian instead?"

Mr. Xu frowned. "Why not listen to me? I say we can't fight! Let Wu Tian apologize. People should coexist peacefully."

"Get lost!" Old Mr. Peng kicked out without hesitation.

The old man, well over a hundred years old, sent Mr. Xu tumbling to the ground with a single kick. He sneered, "Listen to you? On what grounds? With pathetic skills like yours, how can you expect anyone to listen to you?"

He then changed his tone, declaring, "I'll make my stance clear right now. As for this matter, we'll listen to Wu Tian. The young man has good ideas, so we will listen to him."

"Brother Peng is right," Mr. Zhu nodded. "The younger generation thinks more clearly than we do. We have to admit that. We'll follow his lead on what to do."

"That's right!" Mr. Liu and the others all nodded, their attitudes firm. They would listen to Wu Tian and let him decide for himself, without their interference.

"When the young man makes a decision, he'll still have to listen to us," some of the stubborn elders insisted. "That's right," Mr. Zhou and the others agreed with obstinate nods.

Mr. Xu declared, "I've read more books than Wu Tian. We should listen to me. I won't be wrong."

"Pah!" Mr. Nie's eyes burned with anger. He pointed a finger at Mr. Zhou and Mr. Xu, his voice booming, "Who says reading more books makes you more reasonable? That's absolute nonsense!"

Being pointed at and cursed so directly, Mr. Zhou and Mr. Xu were so enraged their chests heaved. How could they possibly endure such an insult? The two men opened their mouths to argue but were cut off by Mr. Zhu, who said indignantly, "Does reading more books automatically make one's actions correct? The traitor Qin Hui read far more books than the patriot Yue Fei, but what kind of man was Qin Hui?"

Then, he angrily jabbed his finger at them. "Are you two just like Qin Hui, thinking that reading more makes you a better person? Heh. Sometimes, talent without virtue is worse than a child!"

Mr. Zhou's face flushed crimson with anger. "You... you..." he stammered.

Old Mr. Peng was also filled with rage. "And you, Mr. Xu!"

Old Mr. Liu was silent for a long time before finally speaking. "Leave the decision to Wu Tian. I believe he will make the right choice. We will not interfere!"

With even the refined Old Mr. Liu saying so, who could possibly have a different opinion?

"Wu Tian will make the right decision!" Old Mr. Peng and the others all nodded in agreement.

Mr. Zhou and Mr. Xu were led away. An order was given to notify the envoy sent by their opponents. Mr. Sihai had no desire to meet with the adversary's messenger again. The message he sent via his man was clean and decisive: "You are to entrust the decision-making power to Wu Tian!"

The scenery at the frontier transforms with the autumn air; geese fly south from Hengyang, never to return. From all sides, the clash of horns begins to stir. Among a thousand peaks, lone smoke rises as the setting sun seals the desolate city. A single cup of cloudy wine, for a home ten thousand miles away; with victory not yet won, there is no hope of return. The mournful Qiang flute drifts as frost blankets the ground. Sleep will not come. For the General's white hair, for the tears of the conscripts.

But for some, the feeling of this moment was one of another poem entirely:

Searching, seeking; so cold, so lonely; so miserable, so sorrowful, so bleak. In this season of fleeting warmth and lingering chill, rest is hardest to find. How can two or three cups of weak wine stand against the biting evening wind? The geese fly past, breaking the heart, for they are familiar friends from long ago. The ground is piled high with withered yellow chrysanthemums, so ruined and faded—who is there now to pick them? Guarding the window, how can one face the encroaching darkness alone? To the wutong tree, a fine drizzle is added, falling drop by drop until dusk. In this moment, how can the single word 'sorrow' ever be enough?