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Ten-year-old Mo Hua wore the simple robes of an outer sect disciple, listlessly squatting behind a large rock at the foot of the mountain. He held grass roots in his hand and was burying himself in the ground, drawing intricate patterns.,The ten-year-old Mo, like a little adult, patted his chest and said, "Don't worry, I'll handle it," then took out several talismans from the storage bag behind him. He handed them to the chubby kid along with white paper and red ink.,The heavens may be equal, but the path of cultivation is certainly not...。

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