A subtle, indescribable ripple stirred within Xu Ran's heart.
This ripple was not born from sympathy or compassion, but from a deeper, more complex confusion and contemplation akin to a quest upon a path.
He had witnessed the trial of that nameless swordsman, in the Land of the Dead, enduring through a mortal vessel, day after day, year after year, pouring forth sweat and life.
Though he never truly touched the threshold of the Immortal Dao, he honed a pure and extreme Sword Intent, a tenacity that embraced death to forge life, a mortal's inquiry into the Heavenly Dao.
And before him stood the butcher, whose beginnings seemed even more humble than that nameless swordsman.
At forty years old, well past the prime age for cultivation, indeed, at an age that could hardly be considered even scraps.
His body had long been molded by a career of grease, blood, and repetitive motions, rigid and lacking in expressiveness.
