Xuanyan had been running for a long time.
He changed direction repeatedly, weaving through the mountain terrain with deliberate irregularity, cutting sharp angles through forested ridges before abruptly shifting onto exposed stone paths.
Whenever his senses brushed against even the faintest hint of pursuit, he doubled back without hesitation, not to gain distance, but to fracture tracking patterns and disrupt rhythm.
Narrow paths gave way to steep slopes, broken stone replacing soil beneath his feet, each transition chosen with intent rather than desperation.
Sweat clung to his skin beneath his robes, damp and uncomfortable, while his breathing remained controlled despite the strain. Each inhale was carefully measured, timed to steady his pulse.
His spiritual energy circulated unevenly now, stretched thin by constant movement and repeated adjustments. It was not exhaustion yet—but it hovered close enough to be dangerous.
Is it Bai Yulan?
it truly him isn't he ? .
