Desolate land.
Chan Yi looked at the puppet in his hand, then gazed at the empty land before him.
This was indeed his style of doing things.
People leave traces; geese pluck feathers as they pass.
He never takes a trip in vain.
Back then, at the Soul Cultivation Tomb, if not for the temptation of profit, he wouldn't have stepped foot into the tomb.
"Saint Heir, could it be that someone you know has come by this place?"
An old monk couldn't help but ask, seeing so many changes in his own Saint Heir's expression.
"Mm."
Chan Yi nodded, his words caused a look of shock to appear on the faces of the two old monks.
The identity of their own Saint Heir was extraordinary—could it be that the familiar person was some senior?
Chan Yi knew that his protectors had misunderstood, but he did not explain; the trip to Chengshan Realm back then was related to the secrets of his own cultivation.
"Saint Heir, what place is this?"
