Two days later, the majestic mountain gate of the Qingxuan Sect came into view.
Fang Han, dressed in a green robe, calmly stepped onto the familiar green stone steps.
On both sides of the mountain path, the ancient trees were bare, their withered branches covered in a thin layer of white frost that glistened coldly in the afternoon sun.
It was deep winter. The wind was bitingly cold, and every breath turned to mist.
The disciples he encountered along the way still stopped in their tracks to bow respectfully.
However, compared to the pure reverence of the past, Fang Han keenly sensed that in the downcast eyes of some disciples, there were hints of more complex emotions—curiosity, scrutiny, and even a faint trace of doubt.
Faint whispers drifted to his ears on the wind.
"Senior Brother Fang is back…"
"He looks the same as always."
"Those rumors… they can't be true. Ever since Senior Brother Fang joined the sect, when has he ever bullied his peers?"
