When Lin Ran returned to Xuanyin Peak, it was already dusk.
The setting sun gradually lowered, and a thin fog spread among the mountains.
Every time at this hour, Lin Ran always felt as if he had the illusion of returning home after finishing a round of social obligations.
The Green Sword hung in the air, his Taoist robe floating lightly with the breeze at the peak.
No sooner had he landed
than Lin Ran noticed something was amiss.
The wooden hut that was older than him had not collapsed, the crooked tree he planted as a child had not had its leaves straightened, and the girls were the same as before.
Two of them were brandishing hoes, digging the ground with grunts and pants.
One was in front of the stove, starting a fire to cook.
And one, with a drained and listless appearance as if squeezed dry to the last drop, lay on Lin Ran's armchair, devoid of any desire to live.
Even the entire scene had turned a shade of gray-white.
