Wang Daoyun stood motionless beneath the dimming sky.
The divine sword had already fallen from his hand, yet he seemed completely unaware of it.
His eyes remained fixed upon Tian Yongheng's casually lowered wooden stick.
"Your sword lacks humanity."
Those words continuously echoed within his mind.
At this moment, the countless comprehensions he had accumulated over hundreds of years after descending the mountain suddenly began surfacing one after another.
The mortal blacksmith who forged iron for thirty years without cultivating.
The wandering swordsman who died protecting a small village from bandits despite possessing only a chipped iron sword.
The crying child clutching his mother's corpse amidst mortal warfare.
The old farmer smiling while watching the wheat fields beneath the sunset.
Life and death.
Joy and sorrow.
Love and hatred.
The mortal world.
