As an idea ca to him, Mr. Xu imdiately shook his head. "No, not like that. We can't do it that way. You have to listen to ."
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 ? 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," so 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 . 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 n 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. Sotis, talent without virtue is worse than a child!"
Mr. Zhou's face flushed crimson with anger. "You... you..." he stamred.
Old Mr. Peng was also filled with rage. "And you, Mr. Xu!"
"You... you..." Mr. Zhou felt his vision go black and grabbed the table for support, his body swaying. Mr. Xu fared only slightly better, but his face was just as pale. They were both terrified.
"If you understand us, then be quiet!" Old Mr. Liu commanded.
"This..." Mr. Zhou and Mr. Xu fell silent, suddenly afraid. They knew their own pasts were not without blemishes; they had made mistakes, perhaps even more than those who had never read a book. What are we to do now?
Mr. Sihai wasn't being indecisive. After a mont of contemplation, he looked at Mr. Zhu and asked, "Do you truly believe we should leave this matter for Wu Tian to decide on his own?"
Mr. Zhu nodded. "Yes!"
Mr. Sihai's gaze then shifted to Mr. Nie, seeking his opinion. Before he could even ask, Mr. Nie said decisively, "Yes!"
Next, he looked to Old Mr. Peng and Old Mr. Liu. These were not ordinary n; they were strategists.
Old Mr. Peng nodded.
Old Mr. Liu was silent for a long ti 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 agreent.
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 et with the adversary's ssenger again. The ssage 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 ho 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 co. For the General's white hair, for the tears of the conscripts.
But for so, the feeling of this mont 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 mont, how can the single word 'sorrow' ever be enough?
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