Jiang Ning finally stood firm and straightened his body, then stepped forward and gently pushed with both hands.
Cre-eak—
As the wooden door was pushed open, the bearings turned, and the scene ahead became clear.
It was a scene from memory.
But next to the stone table, the familiar figure was absent.
Jiang Ning lifted his leg and stepped into the courtyard of the thatched hut.
Arriving at the stone table, he reached out and touched the teapot on the table.
The teapot had long been cold.
His fingers brushed over it, then he looked at his fingertip, seeing faint dust had gathered on it too.
Upon seeing this, he let out a long, gentle sigh.
Although he didn't want to believe it, he felt that the Martial Saint had indeed passed away.
At that moment.
His gaze turned towards the thatched house ahead.
A draft blew through, bringing the sound of rustling paper from the thatched house.
His heart stirred, and he moved closer to the thatched house.
