In the deep, emerald-shrouded valleys of the Western Continent, far removed from the cold obsidian spires of the Northern Continent, lay a village that didn't exist on any imperial map.
It was a place of thatched roofs, tilled earth, and the smell of woodsmoke—a sanctuary for the mundane.
At this moment, in this small, secluded village, the morning mist was being burned away by a pale sun.
Under the shade of a massive, gnarled banyan tree, an old man sat on a stump, his back slightly hunched, his eyes possessing a depth of sorrow that no simple farmer could ever understand.
Around him, a group of seven children, ranging from five to ten years old, sat cross-legged on the dirt, their faces scrubbed clean and their expressions filled with a budding, fierce curiosity.
This old man was Elder Ji, once a Heavenly Saint of the now-extinguished Golden Cloud Immortal Sect.
