Chapter 132 – Echoes (VIII)

Chapter 132

Echoes (VIII)

The world while he was using Master’s created cloaking art appeared… odd. It was as though the edges were washed off, shadowy ink tearing out as if guided by the wind. It would also grow slightly desaturated, like he’d entered an entirely separate reality hidden behind an invisible membrane.

Though he walked among them, he was like a ghost–and they were none the wiser that there was an ear privy to all their whispers.

Unsurprisingly, they were mostly all about the newcomers–though none were all that… tolerable.

“Did you see how they’re dressed? I’ve seen dogs and cats back home dressed better.”

“Pfft. Forget that; they looked like they hadn’t bathed in months.”

“What else do you expect of this backwater place?”

“At least those other ones are children, but that old man…”

“Right? Instead of running as far away as he can, he actually comes here…”

“He he, just wait. Old Zemin won’t always be here to protect him, no?”

“What are you saying?”

“You know what. Maybe we start fighting, and it accidentally spills out toward him?”

“He he, right? After all, when cultivators fight, things are bound to happen…”

Long Tao listened to them all and marked their faces in his mind but had little to no reaction otherwise.

Why would he?

These were all children of some backwater nobodies who thought themselves Gods and Emperors simply because there was somebody else beneath them. It was precisely cultivators like this that never made much of themselves, and he’d met literal tens of thousands of them throughout his life.

They would continue yapping until their throats dried, and he had no intention of stopping them.

Rather, they would be stopped in another way, regardless.

Thus, he ignored them all, slowly walking over to the centermost area where the jutting stones were thinly hidden behind a reddish veil. As soon as he saw it, he recognized it. Like a bolt of thunder ripped open his memories and forced him to remember.

There was likely nobody alive who could recognize these runes–rather, even well back in the day, there were fewer than ten that could, and only just two that could also read them.

It was because the runes did not originate from a language or some ancient script; no, they were his own creation. An arrayed, layered language he formed early in his youth. It wasn’t particularly efficient or even good, but it was his own, and he used it in the making of his early arrays and formations.

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