The mountains are lush and green, and mist drifts like gauze.
An ancient sect stands quietly atop a green mountain, its halls scattered among the trees. The mountain wind sweeps through the valleys, birds chirp brightly, and an aura of spiritual vitality fills the air. One glance is enough to tell that this is an ideal place for quiet cultivation.
But at this moment, the atmosphere atop Qingyun Peak is anything but peaceful.
“Lin Qingxuan, it’s been three years, and you still can’t even master the basic sword technique. How can you call yourself a sword cultivator?”
A furious shout sent the surrounding cranes flapping away. The elder, his beard and hair bristling, pointed at the young man below, his face full of exasperation.
Lin Qingxuan stood there, stunned, his mind a complete blank.
Was the old man calling me?
He instinctively raised his hands. Before him was a pair of youthful hands, with prominent knuckles but a slight build, rough and covered in calluses. They certainly weren’t his hands, worn from years of working with his own hands.
The unfamiliar traditional robes, the towering mountain sect, and the elder glaring at him with his beard bristling...
Countless fragments of unfamiliar memories surged into his mind: Qingyun Sect, outer disciple, Lin Qingxuan, born with blocked meridians, unable to master a single sword move in three years, the laughingstock of the entire sect.
Had he transmigrated?
