At six o’clock the following morning, the sunrise over the Sichuan mountain highway cast long, golden rays across the asphalt.
High above the mountain pass, two figures glided through the morning mist with effortless grace.
On the left rode twelve-year-old Xiao Shi, balancing comfortably on a gleaming Rank-5 flying sword.
He wore a crisp blue Taichu junior utility jumpsuit, a pair of leather work gloves tucked neatly into his belt.
Two weeks ago, Xiao Shi had been a shivering, malnourished orphan who spent twelve hours a day scrubbing outer-sect latrines at Mount Qingcheng.
Today, a steady, emerald glow radiated from his dantian.
His spiritual aura hummed with the solid, unmistakable density of an authentic Foundation Establishment cultivator.
On the right flew Old Zhang, the one-legged former parking-lot attendant at the Taichu Valley logistics depot.
