The midday sun pierced through the sparse clouds, scattering onto the stone paths of the Qingxuan Sect's Sub-Branch with a touch of scorching heat.
Fang Han finished his morning cultivation. He sheathed his sword and stood still, a light sheen of sweat on his brow. His breathing was deep and even, and his eyes were bright.
He habitually patted the non-existent dust from his robes and started walking toward the dining hall.
However, he hadn't taken more than a few steps before he sensed something was wrong.
The disciples he passed along the way, whether familiar faces or strangers, all gave him an indescribably odd look.
It wasn't the usual curiosity, reverence, or envy. Instead, it was a mixture of probing, alienation, and even a faint, almost imperceptible hint of fear and avoidance.
When his gaze swept over them, they would quickly look away, either pretending to talk with their companions or quickening their pace as if terrified of any interaction with him.
