An endless thousand-mile wasteland, with nowhere to voice one's sorrow.
As he traveled, Wang Xian gradually understood why, for tens of millions of years, none of the prodigies from Phoenix City or Sword City had been able to cross this land of death, even after breaking through the boundary wall.
Along the way, he had seen withered trees that ate people, encountered fish that could talk, and rabbits that spat fire—not to mention the miasma that was everywhere.
There were also the death swamps, where one careless step could leave you trapped.
If not for the aura of the demonic dragon that radiated from his body, and if he had not possessed an undying body,
then even with three heads and six arms, he feared he would not have made it a hundred miles before collapsing in despair, turning into a heap of muck in the death swamp.
The farther north he went, the colder the weather grew.
The instant Wuyue awoke, snow suddenly began falling from the sky.
A thousand miles away, atop a mountain.
Beside an old man with white hair and black robes, who looked every bit like an immortal elder, stood a young man in white... Young Master of the Yan Clan of Sunset City in the Demon Realm, a carefree man who had roamed the world.
He was also the dream man of the young women of Sunset City.
The old man had given him a pleasant new name: "Yan Hui."
It meant a gentleman who, though he had flown thousands of miles from his nest, would one day return in graceful flight.
Because of the old man, the cultivators of the Demon Realm no longer called the young man by his original name when they saw him. Instead, they called him Young Master