In a stretch of wilderness, the sallow-faced old monk trudged through wild grass that reached his knees.
The free wind roamed between heaven and earth, yet he seemed to bear heavy shackles, every step far from easy.
He no longer flew at great heights.
For these past days, he had gone back and forth three times between Zhongshan State and Yujing Mountain, yet all traces of Zhao Xuanyang and Jiang Wang seemed to have vanished completely.
He could see through falsehoods, but he could not create something from nothing.
He was certain that Zhao Xuanyang had taken his good disciple and hidden away somewhere.
He had now abandoned the method of tracking traces over a wide area, switching instead to searching inch by inch. He refused to believe that if he plowed through every place that might possibly conceal a trace, inch by inch, Zhao Xuanyang could still escape his eyes.
This wilderness lay between Wei State and Wo Kingdom—Wo Kingdom was also where he had last caught Zhao Xuanyang's trail.
Walking here now, he was like a diligent old farmer patrolling between the ridges of abandoned fields.
Naturally, he found nothing.
The autumn sun scorched his body, bringing a stabbing pain to his heart.
Heaven would not bend to human wishes; what use was there in crying helplessly to the skies?
He had sensed that enormous net long ago, and had tried countless times to break free, only to fail time and again.
From Divine Presence to True Insight, he had grown stronger, yet also become ever more aware of his own powerlessness.
Within the vast and unfathomable River of Fate, his tiny skiff could shelter no one.
Just like Jinge...
Just like Jingshen.
No.
Kujue licked his parched lips.
Jinge was dead, but Jingshen was still alive.
Jingshen