Some handwriting, though weathered by the erosion of countless ages, still carried an invisible Dao rhythm flowing between every stroke.
The Dao rhythm contained within some handwriting had already dispersed severely.
At a glance, it was as if those words were stars—some bright and dazzling, others dim and lightless.
From this, one could distinguish the level of cultivation the writer had possessed back then.
"Just how beautiful was that girl? The only thing I can think of is: 'When she lowered her head, she couldn't see her toes.'"
When Su Yi saw those words, he could not help but freeze, his gaze turning strange.
What lecherous old bastard had left such a shameless remark in broad daylight?
He soon found the answer.
Behind that sentence, a name had been deliberately left behind—
Ji Bochang.
Su Yi was startled, then suddenly laughed soundlessly. To write such words without the slightest reservation, that fellow was quite an open and candid oddity.
Judging from that lecherous old bastard's handwriting, which still gleamed brilliantly after countless ages, Ji Bochang's attainments in the Founder Realm had already been extraordinary when he left those words here.
Su Yi stood there, his gaze sweeping elsewhere.
There were simply too many inscriptions on the city wall, packed together densely, though some were indeed worth reading.
For instance: "Those who leave words upon this city wall mostly end up writing their own epitaphs. Only a tiny handful become tales praised for a thousand ages. I hope to be among the latter."
"The affairs of the world drift freely with flowing water; counted carefully, this floating life is but a dream!"
"I ask for little—I ask only to fight for a death worthy of its cause!"
...Every line contained something worth savoring.
"Have you ever left words on the city