The dark clouds drifted away, the stars twinkled, and moonlight spilled down, making the Short Mountain serene, as if nothing had ever happened.
Ye Fan walked step by step to the old tree. This ancient pine was at least over four thousand years old, its trunk hollow, its needles sparse, already close to death.
At the tree's root, there was a piece of green stone, not much longer than 1.6 or 1.7 meters, just matching the height of that old Daoist. It was quite smooth and somewhat extraordinary.
"Sometimes I come under the pine tree, high-pillowed on stone I sleep. In the mountains, there's no calendar; the cold ends, and I know not the year..."
Is that old Daoist still alive? Ye Fan gazed blankly. The world has seen ages pass like seas turning to mulberry fields. How long must he have lived to offer such a lament?
He strode to the back of the small Daoist Temple, arriving at the earthen grave. Activating his Source Heaven Divine Sense to observe, he shivered at that moment.
