Suddenly, Wang Chen felt a violent impulse surge within him.
Some part of him—buried beneath layers of calm composure—wanted to drop all pretenses, grab the old ghost by the collar, and demand:
What the hell do you mean I was born in the river of time?
The thought alone made his scalp tingle.
Because as far as he remembered, nothing about his birth was extraordinary.
He hadn't descended from the heavens.
He hadn't emerged from some divine realm.
He had woken up in a tiny fishing village—one so painfully ordinary that even mosquitoes avoided it. A place where no cultivator had ever been born since the dawn of history.
And now this strange old man was claiming he came from the river of time?
The absurdity was so overwhelming Wang Chen nearly coughed blood.
But he forced his expression to remain blank, calm, unreadable—like still water reflecting a storm. He resisted the very real urge to strangle the old fogey until every secret fell out of his wrinkled mouth.
