"I suppose I should be patient," the Patriarch said after a while. "But patience weighs heavier with age."
Lin Mu offered a rare smile.
"Then perhaps you simply need the right battle," he said. "One worthy of your blade."
The Patriarch chuckled, a dry, rumbling sound that echoed through the courtyard.
"Maybe so," he said.
And with that, the conversation ended as naturally as it had begun.
The next morning, Lin Mu stood at the edge of the training cliffs, gazing into the horizon as his robes fluttered in the wind. The Sword Cradle Divine Sheath rested heavily and comfortably on his back, like a sleeping beast dreaming of battles yet to come.
He had done all he needed in the Xian Sword Sect.
And now, like the Patriarch, he too could feel the gaze of the world again—watching, waiting, judging.
But unlike the old man, Lin Mu didn't wait for permission.
He was the storm on the horizon.
And it was almost time to move again.
