While most cultivators were immersed in their own quiet pursuits, another ten years passed as effortlessly as a drifting cloud.
Twenty years.
Wang Chen and his group had been sailing for twenty years straight.
And yet—
The ocean remained unchanged.
The same endless stretch of blue, and same steady wind.
The same rhythm of waves striking the hull.
The horizon never drew closer.
It never receded.
It simply existed.
Strangely, no one seemed bothered.
Except Wang Chen.
Except a few whose eyes still retained a trace of sharpness.
The majority had long forgotten why they boarded this ship.
The Dragon Race's inheritance.
The competition.
The urgency.
All of it had dissolved quietly.
Some cultivators had fallen in love.
Wang Chen had watched a former warlike Immortal who once commanded legions now spend his days carving wooden toys for a woman who laughed like wind chimes in summer.
