Everyone simultaneously turned their heads stiffly.
At the end of the mountain path, a figure clad in green clothes walked leisurely.
He wasn't flying away; he was merely walking slowly, as if a traveler coming from a faraway place.
Or perhaps he had taken only three steps from his seat at the Great Heavenly Mountain to reach here.
A gentle breeze swept by, slightly stirring his robe, and the mist billowed; his visage gradually emerged from the fog, looking like an emaciated yet vigorous middle-aged man.
Old Taoist Zhao Deshan felt his entire body go limp, utterly falling into the mud, his lips quivering as he almost subconsciously uttered the name again:
"True Celestial... Xu Qi..."
In the Jianghu, anyone with some fame would have a portrait circulating, much less those in the top ten of the Martial Arts List, esteemed above all.
