His own master was the Sect Master of Nameless Mountain, lofty and exalted, wielding boundless authority.
When he had begged his master, he had not held much hope to begin with. His master surely would not ruin his plans for the sake of these mortals.
Even in ordinary times, it was exceedingly difficult for Human Race cultivators to set foot in Demon Race territory, let alone during such a sensitive period.
To bring anything out of the Demon Race, even something utterly worthless, required paying an enormous price if you wanted it.
He did not know what price his master had paid to bring so many people out.
This time, he felt even more gratitude toward his master, toward Ye Lin, along with a genuine sense of belonging. Ye Lin was not his father, yet he was better than a father.
After quietly wiping away a tear from the corner of his eye, Taiyuan led the people before him into Nameless Mountain.
None of Nameless Mountain's disciples or even elders dared say a word when they saw this. Taiyuan was the disciple of Nameless Mountain's Sect Master—who would dare stop him?
Taiyuan's status was like that of a young lord within a great power. No one dared bar his way.
Spring passed into autumn, autumn passed into winter, like a beautiful scroll of painting.
The scroll slowly unfurled, rippling softly as it did.
Seas turned to mulberry fields; things remained while people changed.
Looking back, you had once been so young and full of fire, so brimming with vigor. Then you looked at your aged body and let out a sigh.
Time was like flowing water. It washed away our youthful fire, washed away our vitality, washed away our past, washed away that youth which had already faded into death.