Wooyun and Soomin turned around and were met with an old man with sable-hued skin and long white hair tied neatly in a bun wrapped with a white cloth. His back bent with years, yet his steps were steady. His face was lined, not with weariness but with the calm of someone who had lived long and seen much.
"Welcome, travelers," he said warmly, bowing just enough to honor them without diminishing himself. His gaze lingered on Wooyun for a moment, sharp despite his gentle smile. "You're from the capital, are you not? A young master of one of the sects, perhaps?"
Wooyun blinked, caught off guard. "How did you know?"
The old man's dark eyes glimmered like still water. "The air around you," he replied. "Even when you try to appear simple, it clings to you, the bearing of one who cultivates. Not to mention," his gaze flicked downward, "those robes. Simple by your standards, perhaps. But the cut, the fabric… no farmer would mistake them."
