The small tavern was desolate, with no other customers. Zhang Wenchang appeared even older, his eyes dull, standing there rigidly like a heartless scarecrow.
He was engulfed in a morose aura, with not a hint of light in his eyes. Enduring constant humiliation and an unsatisfactory life, he always responded with silence. His world was a gray expanse.
"Useless old man, did you see the Sacred Body and fail to tell us?" a young man coldly inquired.
"No, I haven't seen him," Zhang Wenchang responded woodenly, a hint of melancholy in his eyes, his entire being steeped in despair.
"Could he really be dead? That would be letting him off too easily," another young man said discontentedly, glaring at Zhang Wenchang. "If you dare deceive us, you'll pay dearly!"
"A few months ago, he battled the prodigies of the Central States' younger generation, but he hasn't been seen for three months. Many are saying he's already dead."
