The famed Time Sword Pavilion turned out to be nothing more than an ordinary thatched hut.
Built of straw, it looked utterly unremarkable.
Yet it stood alone atop a solitary peak, having weathered the endless storms of history.
Si Yu'an, master of the Sword Pavilion, was likewise merely a middle-aged man sitting calmly on a bluestone by the cliff's edge, his aura entirely ordinary.
He wore broad robes with wide sleeves, concealing the shape of his body. His posture was casual, without the slightest earthshaking presence.
Of course, he was exceptionally handsome—his features lean and sharply carved, two strands of hair hanging beside his face and drifting like they might take flight. He must have been a rare beauty in his youth.
After leading Jiang Wang to the mountaintop, Ning Shuangrong departed on her own.
Her green robes receded along the winding plank path, vanishing amid cloud and mist.
Jiang Wang stepped forward and solemnly bowed. "Jiang Wang, Marquis of Wu'an of Qi State, pays his respects to True Lord Si."
The great bluestone at the cliff's edge shone like a mirror. Behind the cross-legged master of the Sword Pavilion stretched a sea of clouds for ten thousand miles.
Si Yu'an gazed at the plain thatched hut and said wistfully, "Thirty thousand years ago, the founding patriarch of this sect built a hut here and dwelt within it, seeking the sword and inquiring into the Dao. Through countless years of wind and rain, who knows how many times the sun and moon have changed, how many generations have risen and fallen in the sea of humanity? Today, I still sit here, and the thatched hut remains. I wonder whether the patriarch of thirty thousand years ago bore the same worries in his heart as I do?"
"How could this junior