From a pavilion at the edge of the mountaintop garden, Wang Ping gazed at the winding steps leading up the mountain. He then turned his gaze to the disciples practicing in the training grounds of the front hall below.
Every one of these young disciples was incredibly serious about their training. Some even practiced late into the night. They never saw themselves as tools and were full of hope for their future paths in cultivation.
But to Wang Ping, these people were merely tools for carrying on the legacy of Qianmu Temple. Only a very small few were special. Only a tiny fraction could distinguish themselves after a century of cultivating as if every day were the same. The vast majority would renounce their vows in despair, enjoy a few decades of worldly pleasures, and then turn to a pile of yellow dust.
The reason Wang Ping was feeling so reflective at this moment was that he had been stirred by the subtle intentions Zuo Xuan had carried with her when she came to see him earlier.
