Not far from Xingye Lake was a designated waiting area, where people either waited to board the flying ship or to pick someone up.0

Mo Qingdi was sitting on a stone bench, with a popular novel resting on his lap.0

To him, these novels were honestly uninteresting. The authors lacked depth, yet they loved to pepper their tales with random discourse about the Daoist Order, high-ranking Daoist priests, and all sorts of worldly affairs. However, they were often criticisms with sinister undertones.0

That said, if one removed the tedious debates, lengthy descriptions, and redundant passages, these stories would at least be passable—good enough to kill time.1

Of course, Mo Qingdi was not reading these novels just to kill time. He mainly wanted to scope out his competition so that he could learn from the good parts and discard the bad ones. Perhaps he could one day be able to write one himself.0

He...0