Ever since ascending via the Heavenly Path, Wang Xian could not remember how long it had been since he had last reached a mountaintop.
Whether it was the Daoist temple in Phoenix City, the back mountain of the Yin-Yang Sect, or the secluded realm of Hundred Flowers Valley, he had only ever lingered halfway up the mountain. The scenery had been beautiful, yet it had always seemed to lack something.
Today, he climbed the mountain step by step. Beneath his feet, the path changed from gravel to bluestone, from bluestone to dirt, until at last there was nothing but wild grass and exposed rock.
The higher he went, the fiercer the wind became, whipping his robes into a loud flutter.
He did not ride a sword. He simply climbed one step at a time.
In the end, he finally reached the summit.
The instant he stood atop the mountain, he did not think of the uninvited guest halfway up. Instead, he remembered the old Sword Immortal of Sword City.
He had an illusion.
Back then, outside Sword City, standing atop those towering battlements, he had felt the same desolate solitude—as though even with countless millions before him, he alone stood supreme.
The wind howled past his ears.
Silently, silently, he felt the wind.
What surprised him was that the white-bearded old man had not followed him.
He stood alone on the mountaintop. Behind him, only the wind rustled through the green pines with a soft whisper, like someone murmuring, or like the sound of time flowing by.
In the distance, above the sea of clouds, spring was in full bloom.
Inch by inch, the spring light came toward him. It spilled through gaps in the clouds, rolled over from distant ridgelines, gently yet resolutely drawing closer, inch by inch.
Wang