The winds and clouds of the world rose from our generation.
Wang Xian did not care who was a hero and who was an ant.
As they traveled farther and farther from the secret realm, he was not in a hurry, because they had no direction.
He left every decision to Ye Honglian. If she went east, he went east; if she headed west, he headed west; if she stopped to rest, he rested as well, as though he were nothing more than a piece of luggage.
Even if this woman were to slash him with her sword the next moment, or poison his wine, it no longer mattered.
This indifference was not open-mindedness. It was emptiness.
Like a dry well—no matter what was thrown into it, no echo could be heard.
He did not know that Young Master Yan Hui, whose life and death were unknown after being struck by his arrow, was at that very moment sitting somewhere and descending into demonic cultivation—
This time, he had let go of everything.
He had even let go of his master in Phoenix City. He was no longer in a hurry to travel, nor did he think about whom he might encounter next. He had even forgotten Young Master Yan Hui, whom he had shot with an arrow.
Forgetting was true letting go.
In Ye Honglian's eyes, the farther they got from the secret realm, the calmer Wang Xian's mind became, gradually resembling a pool of still water.
There were no waves, no ripples, not even a reflection.
Whenever she glanced at him, his face hidden behind the black cloth over his eyes seemed strangely unfamiliar—
This was not the Wang Xian she knew. Or rather, this was not the Wang Xian who had fought Yan Hui to the death