The quiet, rural atmosphere of a certain small mortal village was a stark contrast to the world of blood and lightning Shen Haoran had just departed.
Here, the air smelled of damp earth and blooming jasmine rather than blood and scorched flesh.
It was a place where time seemed to slow, far removed from the machinations of empires and the greed of cultivators.
In the center of a small, dusty clearing, Elder Ji, once a feared Heavenly Saint of the Golden Cloud Immortal Sect, sat on a weathered stone slab.
His eyes, though clouded by age and suppressed injuries, glowed with a faint, paternal warmth as he watched a group of a dozen village children.
They were lined up in uneven rows, their small faces set in masks of fierce concentration as they performed the foundational punches and kicks of the Golden Cloud's martial arts.
