We Cultivators Bury Our Bones Ahead, Yet Stand Fearless

With that thought, Chen Wen set foot on the road home.

Half a year later, he finally returned home—to his hometown.

Leaving had taken a lifetime; returning home had taken only half a year.

Looking at his hometown, which no longer held the slightest trace of familiarity, Chen Wen stopped in his tracks.

Watching people pass by one after another, Chen Wen realized that not a single one of them was familiar.

In an instant, an inexplicable unease drowned him.

This time, he did not linger. Instead, he rushed toward his home at top speed.

When the house finally came into view, Chen Wen stopped once more.

No, more precisely, he froze completely.

For every brick and tile before him contained something familiar.

Yet all of it seemed to be telling him that he no longer had a home.

"May I ask who you're looking for?"

An unfamiliar young man walked out. Seeing the old man before him, he asked in confusion.

Chen Wen stiffly turned his head and looked at the young man. Only after a long, long while did he say, "Is this the home of Chen Badao and Ye Chenyan?"

"They were our ancestors," the young man said, his brows knitting tightly.

Ancestors.

Only the dead could be called ancestors.

Chen Wen felt as though he had been struck by lightning, tears streaming straight down his face.

So I truly no longer have a home.

After an unknown amount of time, Chen Wen finally regained a trace of awareness. "What about Chen Wudi and Chen Hongmian? How are they?"

"Chen Wudi is our ancestor too. I don't know Chen Hongmian," the young man replied instinctively.

Ancestor.

Chen Wen froze again, his entire body like solid ice, devoid of the slightest warmth.

Soon, the young man suddenly raised