Turning his head, he saw that the old man on the right stood in stark contrast to the white-robed elder.
If the white-robed elder gave him a feeling of restraint and casual ease—
Then this man gave him a feeling of concealment.
His aura was drawn entirely inward. He seemed like an ordinary man, as though everything about him was hidden within his body, never readily revealed to others.
He sat upright, dressed in a faded blue-gray robe washed nearly white, with an unsheathed longsword hanging at his waist.
The blade was pitch-black and completely unadorned, resting quietly against his side like a sleeping snake.
The old man's face was thin, his cheekbones slightly pronounced, and his skin possessed the pallor of someone who had not seen sunlight for a long time.
His graying hair was casually tied behind his head, with several loose strands falling over his forehead and obscuring half his brows and eyes.
His lips were pressed into a tight line, his jaw as hard and sharp as if carved by a blade. From the depths of his bones, he exuded an aloofness that kept people a thousand miles away.
He was not looking at Ye Lin.
He was looking at his own sword.
The index finger of his right hand rested on the end of the hilt, tapping at an extremely light, slow rhythm. It was like some silent counting—or like the sword was conversing with him.
He looked calm, quiet.
Yet his presence was more impossible to ignore than anyone else's.
So this was the senior sword cultivator?
A glint flashed through Ye Lin's eyes.
This was the senior sword cultivator who had tested him just now. As expected, he was terrifying. Later, he would simply lure him away.
After looking him over, Ye Lin