The waterfall thundered. The Black Flood Dragon's great head remained motionless for a long while.
After bewilderment came helpless resignation. Even cultivators who carried their masters' legacies would die. How far could a half-flood dragon like him go, with neither a master nor a path to follow?
How wonderful it would have been to know nothing. Perhaps his days could have passed peacefully. Yet he had learned it all.
He raised his great head and scanned through the mist for a long time. The peaks above were dark as ink, and he could not find Redleaf Peak, which he had just visited.
He lowered his head and let out a long breath through his nostrils. Forget it. He would return to his lair first.
Buoyed by the moisture, he floated into the air and gently swished his tail, winding his way away from the waterfall. Droplets slid off his scales in a patter, and the wind soon dried the remaining water as he twisted left and right, gliding nimbly past the mountains.
At first, the knowledge that his lifespan fell short of five hundred years weighed on his heart. But as he floated along, that burden slowly faded.
His simple brain had always worked that way: if he could not solve something, he ignored it.
Back at the Cliffside Medicine Field, he raised his head and studied it quietly for a long time. This time, he was not staring blankly, but planning how to expand the field.
He carefully examined the lay of the land and estimated the depth of the soil. The plots for root crops, in particular, would need deep digging.
A little hard work was nothing. Staying alive meant hunting, fighting, and struggling desperately to survive. Compared with battling evil spirits and uncanny horrors to the death,