From appearances alone, the crowd here was a mix of men and women, young and old, beautiful and handsome, youthful and aged—cultivators of every sort coming and going.
Yet in some places, a large empty space had clearly been left around certain groups.
The cultivators in those places wore seamless heavenly robes that shimmered with flowing radiance. Their magic treasures either hung at their waists, rested in their hands, or took the form of a longsword leaning against their backs. Special patterns were embroidered upon their trailing hems and cuffs.
In ancient times, there were cultivation cloud patterns, specially used to comprehend the Great Dao—principles of the Dharma realized by immortals for their disciples.
The differences in those cloud patterns likewise distinguished these Dao lineages.
A glance at the cloud patterns alone was enough to tell which sect or faction had arrived.
Countless cultivators had already gathered beneath Green Duckweed Mountain.
Amid the entwining cloud patterns, everything was bright and distinct, clear at a glance.
Naturally, this allowed everyone to see things clearly.
It also prevented people from accidentally offending disciples of certain Dao lineages.
Especially those whose cloud patterns were traced with incomparably intricate talismanic script—those were clearly sect lineages preserved from ancient times. One only needed to look with the naked eye to understand what they were.
Thus, most cultivators avoided them like the plague, keeping far from their surroundings to avoid inviting trouble upon themselves.
And those cultivators from cultivation clans or great mountain sects did not care about the attitudes of wandering cultivators and rogue cultivators.
To them, only cultivators of equivalent sects and Dharma lineages were worthy of a second look.
As for other cultivators, only those with truly peerless talent could fight their way out from among countless cultivators and arrive before their eyes.