Qi WuHuo said, "This is..."
The old man said, "Your senior brother."
He walked forward, and Qi WuHuo followed behind him. As they drew near, Qi WuHuo saw the size of the grave. It was clearly only a clothes tomb.
Desolate and forlorn; all the elegance of those days had been swept away by wind and rain.
The tremendous impact made the young man's expression turn solemn.
The many tangled thoughts from before had been cleaved apart by life and death, leaving one final question.
Those whose Dao hearts were purest, who sought the Great Dao with single-minded devotion, fell halfway along the way. Yet those who lost themselves in their own obsessions could live for a thousand years.
Why was it so?
The old man bent down and brushed away the green moss that had crept over the grave. He pushed aside the branches obscuring it, revealing the words beneath. Qi WuHuo instinctively looked at them. The writing was gentle and peaceful, as though casually set down—as though the person who had written it had remained calm to the very end, without obsession or turmoil in his heart.
Qi WuHuo instinctively read aloud, "In this life of cultivation, I encountered a renowned teacher and befriended heroic men of distinction. I had kin who loved me dearly and a beloved Dao companion. I roamed freely between heaven and earth, and all went as I wished—save for the Thirteen Sorrows, which stretched on and would not end even in death. I record them here."
"First sorrow: books are easily worm-eaten."
He paused, instinctively thinking of Senior Brother Yu Yang, a cultivator born to a family of scholars.
His senior brother had been consumed by his ambition to lose himself in books, then become immersed in the grand desire to have his