Three thousand years passed. The earth-shattering event of the white-haired man had long faded into myth, a tale whispered like the wind, its truth lost to the mists of time.
At the Hidden Cloud Sect—one of the great cultivation sects renowned throughout the Central Region—the atmosphere had recently become unusually lively. The summons for the grand tournament had been issued, igniting a flame of ambition in the heart of every disciple, from the celebrated geniuses to those who toiled in obscurity.
As soon as the order was given, the entire sect was abuzz. A wave of disciples began their journey back to the sect.
Among those returning was a disciple named Ye Shen. He was an outer sect disciple, his cultivation aptitude far from outstanding. The world had labeled him as having "limited talent," his spiritual root and foundation ordinary, no match for the geniuses of the great clans.
He couldn't help but recall the previous month's spar. His opponent, an arrogant inner sect disciple, was a level higher in spiritual power. When that disciple unleashed a powerful 'Roaring Fire Dragon,' Ye Shen, instead of confronting it head-on, calmly shot a small fireball at a jagged rock nearby. The rock shattered, sending a shower of sharp fragments flying like a storm of hidden weapons, forcing his opponent to scramble to defend, creating a momentary opening. Such instances, while not earning him praise for his power, had made the supervising elders nod in silent approval. This very difference had turned him into a quiet but formidable presence.
Ye Shen possessed no strange spiritual root, but his soul was like a sword hidden in its sheath—silent, yet sharp. He diligently studied the scriptures, painstakingly practiced every move, trading sweat for every bit of progress, gradually becoming a potential seed that even the elders had to secretly take note of.
At this moment, in a remote village a few days' journey from the sect, Ye Shen carefully folded the summons, his gaze quietly fixed on the distant white clouds that swirled around the peak of Hidden Cloud Mountain.
In his eyes was not just anticipation, but a smoldering fire. 'Limited talent?' he thought to himself. 'In this tournament, I must secure a high position. Only then will I have the chance to enter the second floor of the Scripture Pavilion, to find a clue about the 'Infinity Heart Sutra' and lift the cold poison from my little sister. The efforts of this Ye Shen cannot stop at mere recognition!'
He donned his simple Daoist robe, strapped his longsword to his back, and quickly mounted his horse, heading straight for the sect.
The mountain path was rugged, at times winding through ancient forests where the sun struggled to penetrate, the air damp with the scent of decaying leaves and the distant calls of apes; at other times, it crossed barren plains of scorched yellow grass stretching to the horizon, where the wind carried the heat of the earth and the scent of nomadic tribes that had just passed.
As Ye Shen was urging his horse through a deserted stretch of road, where the sunlight was obscured by the canopy of leaves, the horse let out a soft whinny. The steed suddenly stopped, its ears pricked high, sniffing the wind as if sensing something unusual.
Ye Shen reined in his horse, his eyes narrowing slightly.
When the steed came to an abrupt halt, Ye Shen not only sensed the abnormality in the air but also caught a strange fragrance. As their eyes met, he felt a fleeting cold aura brush past him like an illusion. Her demeanor was solitary, yet seemed to hide a distant sorrow behind her quiet facade.
She wore a robe the color of pale green, like new leaves, her jet-black hair was loosely styled, fastened with a jade hairpin that gleamed with a green luster. Her face was so exquisite that it made one feel as if they had stumbled into a dream.
But what truly stunned Ye Shen, to the point of forgetting to breathe, was not her breathtaking beauty, but her eyes. They were as clear as the autumn lake, hiding an indescribable depth, as if they had witnessed ten thousand full moons.
The air was somewhat still.
He dismounted, clasping his hands gently: 'Miss, this place is desolate and few people pass by. If it is no trouble, I am willing to escort you for a stretch of the road back to the city.'
The woman turned with a start, instinctively taking a small step back, her hand hidden in her sleeve tightening around something. Her gaze was as sharp as a knife, sweeping quickly over Ye Shen, from his simple robe to the sword on his back, a cold and wary assessment. 'Thank you, young master,' her voice was indifferent, 'but I have no need.' However, when she looked into his sincere and untainted eyes, the ice in her gaze softened slightly. She hesitated for a long moment before replying softly, 'This young lady... is Luo Ying. If... if it is not too much trouble, then I thank you, young master.'
Noticing the contradiction between her words and her eyes, Ye Shen smiled, not accepting her refusal. He stood there patiently. Finally, Luo Ying let out a soft sigh, accepting his offer.
The two of them rode on the same horse, he sat behind holding the reins, his hands a respectful distance from her.
On the way, they talked a little. Luo Ying said she was from the Evil Sun Clan, sent this time to purchase items in the city, and would return in a few days. Although she spoke gently, her eyes sometimes flashed with a sharpness that did not fit the role of the "handmaiden" she claimed to be.
Though Ye Shen found it strange, he did not press further. He just observed quietly, responding to her earnest gaze with his inherent calmness.
The sun was gradually setting behind the mountains. The twilight stretched their shadows long on the windy road.
The evening shadows lengthened, and mountain mist blurred the road ahead. Ye Shen gently tightened the reins, feeling the warmth from the person in front of him, a strange feeling rising in his heart, both bewildering and expectant. He did not know where this encounter would lead, only that his path back to the sect seemed to have turned in a completely different direction, a direction he could not possibly foresee.