Lin Mu was now seventy-five years old, while Meng Bai had reached the age of twenty-four.
In terms of a cultivator's life, this gap was little more than a ripple in a vast river—merely different phases on the same journey. But when viewed through the eyes of a mortal, the difference was glaring. They could easily have been grandfather and grandson. Yet to most who laid eyes on them, the two resembled brothers—perhaps one more reserved, the other mischievous.
Meng Bai had grown into a striking young man. His features were sharp and well-defined, his posture that of a proud disciple, and his robes always worn with an intentional flair. But much to his dismay, the one thing he still lacked was a beard.
Not even a trace of stubble dared bless his chin.
