Below Myriad Swords Mountain, before Sutra Loft.
Just as Wang Anfeng finished pondering and was about to speak, a burst of loud laughter and admiration suddenly filled the air. An elderly man with white hair strode forth, his clothes tattered and worn. Yet, his complexion was ruddy, and not a single wrinkle marred the corners of his eyes or brows. His white hair was disheveled, and in one hand, he carried a large gourd almost the size of a child's head. With a casual gesture of his right hand, the small dead animal at Wang Anfeng's feet soared into the air, landing in the grasp of the old man's five fingers.
He weighed it for a moment and then, with narrowed eyes and a look of delight, said,
"This bright-eyed marten makes for a fine taste. If fried with enough oil, it's perfect as a drink accompaniment."
"Hehe, if the two young friends don't mind, then please allow this old man to take it?"