A figure came walking across the Bolan River in River City.
The sun was setting, filling the sky with rosy clouds. The numerous tourists by the river were all stunned by the scene. Everyone frantically took photos, their emotions running high.
It was not until the person approached that the crowd could clearly see his appearance. He was an old man, nearly seventy years old, though one could have just as easily believed he was sixty, or even fifty. His aura was so indistinct and mysterious that it was impossible to determine his true age. Dressed in a Daoist Robe and holding a horsetail whisk, he had white hair but a youthful complexion, his face lean and refined.
He stood on the surface of the river. His posture seemed hunched, yet he emanated a startling aura, one that felt capable of shattering everything in his path.
The river's surface roiled as a torrential rain began to pour.
