Just as Yang Zhengshan controlled the Soul Crow to sneak into the courtyard, inside a quiet room within the courtyard, Xuan Zhen was sitting cross-legged in cultivation.
The Xuan Zhen of this moment looked almost no different from more than twenty years ago. He still wore a gray Daoist robe, with a wooden hairpin thrust through his hair, and a snow-white fly whisk placed beside him. His complexion was ruddy, his strands of hair were mixed black and white, and faint wrinkles marked the corners of his eyes and his forehead; if one did not observe carefully, they could hardly even be seen.
More than twenty years ago, when they had come to the Lingxiu Sea, Xuan Zhen had already been over a hundred and fifty years old. Logically speaking, his lifespan should have been at its end, but perhaps because the cultivation arts of Wuzhen Dao Palace had the effect of extending life, he had not looked especially aged at the time.
But now that more than twenty years had passed, Xuan Zhen was likely already over a hundred and eighty years old, yet his face still appeared so young.
After cultivating for a long while, Xuan Zhen slowly opened his eyes. His gaze was exceptionally deep, as if it could see through everything in this world, making anyone who saw it feel as though they had been seen through.
"Come in!" Xuan Zhen suddenly spoke up.
The door of the quiet room was pushed open, and a man dressed in tight black clothes, his face pale, walked into the quiet room.
"Hehe, Deacon Xuan Zhen, long time no see." Mo Xuanyu looked at Xuan Zhen, his pale face filled with a brilliant smile.
Yet Xuan Zhen's expression was indifferent. He picked up his fly whisk and slowly rose