Qingyun Sect.
Ancestral Hall.
The old man's face was withered and aged, his features covered in wrinkles layered like the bark of an ancient tree.
Most importantly.
There wasn't the slightest fluctuation of spiritual power throughout his body.
He looked like an ordinary old man on the verge of death.
Only those eyes that occasionally lifted.
Amid their murkiness lay a pool of deathly still water, bottomless and unfathomable.
Ye Xuan stopped, standing ten paces away from the old man.
He did not speak rashly.
Nor did he immediately take out the token.
He merely watched in silence.
The air seemed to freeze at that moment.
Apart from the rustling sound of sweeping, there was nothing else.
The old man seemed completely unaware of Ye Xuan, mechanically repeating the motion in his hands.
Once.
Twice.
With each sweep of the broom.
Piles of fallen leaves were slowly pushed toward Ye Xuan's feet.
Dust billowed up.
It rushed toward Ye Xuan's spotless robe.
Ye Xuan did not move an inch.
He let the dust settle on his shoes and trouser cuffs.
He did not even furrow his brow.
He neither used spiritual power to shake the dust away nor showed the slightest distaste.
He was like a statue.
A quarter of an hour passed.
The old man finally finished sweeping this section.
He stopped, leaning on the broom with his single arm, and slowly straightened his back.
His spine let out a series of crisp cracks.
The old man turned around.
Those murky old eyes looked directly at Ye Xuan for the first time.
There was not the slightest ripple in them.
It was as if he were looking at a stone or a tree.
"This place..."
"No one has come here for decades."
"Which branch are you a disciple of?"