For this reason, the several great sacred lands that often visited each other all had separate residences in the West Pavilion. As soon as Grace Turner's waist token was presented, a little boy dressed in brocade led her upstairs.

“Miss, you have come from afar. Our master has already received word and wishes to host a banquet to welcome you and wash away the dust of your journey.” The guide, a boy of about seven or eight, was plump and wore a thick red jacket. Even as he spoke with formality, there was an inescapable air of innocent playfulness about him.

At this time, dusk had not yet fully fallen, but the building was already lively. Grace Turner watched as all kinds of lanterns lit up along the way inside, her eyes lowering slightly. She spoke in an unhurried tone, as if making casual conversation: “Your master is very thoughtful. Have the others from the sacred lands arrived?”

The two little boys exchanged a glance, and one quickly replied, “The lord from Taihua lives nearby and arrived two days ago. The other lords have not yet arrived.”

In other words, Adam Harris had not come yet.

Afraid that Grace Turner might be disturbed by some unruly revelers in the building, the two boys led her along a winding path and soon stopped in front of a small courtyard. “If you need anything, the maids of the West Pavilion are waiting outside and will obey your every command.” The boy, well-mannered, bowed to Grace Turner before slowly retreating.

In such a place of indulgence and revelry, the nights were often far livelier than the days. Grace Turner leaned against the lacquered red railing on the second floor, her eyes lowered, revealing half of her delicate, petite face. At a glance, she gave off a sense of aloof detachment, yet she watched with great attentiveness, not blinking for long moments.

When Laura Reed led the people from Yedu in, she happened to see this scene. She paused, thinking that this princess of Yedu, so decisive in official matters, sometimes seemed like a curious child quietly observing the world.

“Greetings, Miss.” The dozen or so people behind Laura Reed all cupped their hands in salute to Grace Turner. They wore dark robes and masks similar to those of the Brocade-Clad Guards, with pale patterns pressed along the edges, giving them a mysterious air.

Such an imposing group, it was clear at a glance they belonged to some ancient noble family.

Grace Turner withdrew her gaze, letting her eyes sweep over them before speaking: “The sacred land is under martial law. We are invited guests, so we must act with courtesy and avoid causing trouble.”

Her words were clear as jade, her voice soft and not loud, and she was young in age. By rights, she should not have had much presence, yet she managed to command respect.

Grace Turner rarely spoke such admonitions. Most of those around her were tamed demons, bound by chains of life and death, and were very well-behaved. But these people who were to accompany her into Xihe had been temporarily assigned from her father’s side and did not know her rules.

In this world, all living beings were divided into ranks: noble families, royal clans, and immortal sects each held their place, while demons and ghosts were at the bottom. Besides these, there were a few very special existences, with the sacred lands among them.

There were six sacred lands, each with its own duties, roaming the world to eradicate evil spirits. This had been the way for generations, so they held great prestige and status in the eyes of the people.

Natives born in the sacred lands were called ancient immortals, blessed with natural advantages in cultivation. Wherever they went, they were admired. Over time, this naturally bred a pride different from ordinary people. Over the years, this had led to several major incidents, so the sacred lands had learned their lesson, repeatedly instructing and strictly disciplining their clansmen. Reminders when traveling had almost become a habit.

The leader stepped forward, cupped his fists, and replied solemnly to Grace Turner, “We will follow your every command.”

Grace Turner nodded. Seeing this, Laura Reed stepped forward and softly added a few words, then led them to the side rooms outside the small courtyard.

As night deepened, the two plump little boys from before led a woman through the corridor, heading straight for Grace Turner. The woman appeared to be in her thirties or forties, with a full figure, wearing a pomegranate-red moonlit dress that reached her ankles. A row of smooth, round pearls was sewn along the hem, swaying and clinking as she walked.

“Greetings, Miss.” The woman held a fan and curtsied to Grace Turner, smiling as she said, “I did not expect you today. Megan Price has not been a good hostess and has come to apologize to you.”

When Grace Turner heard the name “Megan Price,” she lifted her eyes slightly. She was not unfamiliar with the woman who ran the West Pavilion so successfully, but this was their first meeting.

“The West Pavilion has always been a gracious host,” Grace Turner said with a slight smile. “You are too kind, madam.”

Megan Price smiled as she fanned herself, her alluring phoenix eyes quietly sizing up the young girl before her. To have managed the West Pavilion so well, she was certainly no ordinary person. If nothing else, reading people and situations had become second nature to her.

This legitimate eldest daughter of Yedu was not dressed extravagantly—a simple cross-collared rabbit-fur jacket on top, with a matching skirt below. She did not display the youthful liveliness typical of girls her age, yet she had an exquisitely delicate face. At this moment, as she looked up, her beautiful eyes reflected the countless bright lanterns throughout the building, the shimmering lights revealing a warmth at odds with her usual demeanor.

Having spent so long in this place, Megan Price had seen countless girls as lovely as flowers, yet even so, seeing this face and figure, she could not help but feel a sense of admiration. What stood out most was the tenacity that radiated from her, like grass growing ever upward.