Jiangbei Province, Zhenwu Mountain.
The sun was hanging high. Within Qingwei Palace, an old man, looking much like a farmer, was sitting cross-legged, basking lazily in the sunlight at the stone steps before the Pure Yang Hall.
He rubbed his palms together, kept his gaze lowered to the ground, eyes intent and focused; deep within those eyes flickered sparks, as if he'd discovered some unfathomable mystery.
"Master, what are you looking at?"
At this moment, Taoist Pojie walked over, his face brimming with deep curiosity.
For the foremost expert under heaven, the living Zhenren of this age, to be so focused, there must be some hidden secret of cultivation involved.
"I'm watching ants move house," Chu Chaoran murmured, voice low and steady.
"Ants moving house!?"
Taoist Pojie paused a moment, then couldn't help but look at the ground. Within his field of vision, it was empty as could be—where were the ants moving house?
