"Apologies." Lu Xinglan nodded at Xu Xiaojun, though she didn't look apologetic at all.
Her voice was flat, devoid of the reverent tone usually reserved for the scion of the Imperial Throne.
If anything, she looked like she was annoyed at having to greet him, her eyes flicking back to Shen Haoran as if she were mentally comparing a forged iron coin to a bar of pure celestial gold.
To her, a ruler was defined by the weight of their presence and the sharpness of their spirit; in that regard, the young man from the Shen Clan stood miles above the man wearing the dragon-emblazoned armor.
"Hmph. It seems the Spirit Hall has grown too independent that they don't even recognize their superior at all," said Xu Xiaojun.
His voice was laced with a venomous arrogance, his face still flushed with the embarrassment of being overlooked.
