The mountains lay shrouded in mist, with the bright moon rising high.
In the dusky twilight, Wang Qianyu's gaze was like nails driven into Zhang Fan, fixed on him from head to toe, unable to look away.
"Senior… senior…" Under such a stare, Zhang Fan felt his hair stand on end and couldn't help calling out twice.
"The more I look, the more familiar you seem."
Wang Qian'an wore an odd expression; in Zhang Fan, he caught a glimpse of something familiar, hidden beneath the dust of years, right on the tip of his tongue—almost ready to reveal itself but just out of his grasp.
"Young man, who else is in your family? Generations of cultivation practitioners?" Wang Qian'an suddenly asked.
Generally speaking, for someone so young to excel, it was almost always due to family tradition—a deep, ancestral foundation.
"It's just me and my dad. He does odd jobs on construction sites," Zhang Fan replied truthfully.
"A mortal-born!?"
