There are real people in the east, and they eat and drink in the world. There are old monks in the Western Desert, and the Buddha country in the palm of his hand entrusts millions of sentient beings. There are many barbarian gods in the southern wilderness, and all beasts worship their souls and return to my body. There is an ice palace in the North Pole, and the sound of immortals in the dead territory is lingering. This is the exile story of the king of the fallen country, and it is also a story about human hatred. In the past, when I saw the story of Fantasy Xianxia, I felt that it was easy to cultivate the truth, and it was even easier for the protagonist. Others have practiced for thousands of years, and the protagonist can succeed in a hundred years or thirty or fifty years. Ten years of self-cultivation, a hundred years of self-cultivation. The thousand-year-old monsters seem to be all cultivators who don't cultivate their minds, not so much the ancestors as the old hooligans in the shell of a turtle. This story has been conceived in my mind for a long time, from the very beginning of Xiaobai Meng, and gradually there is a new story idea, and I have not dared to write, for fear that Zhang Fuyao will also be shaped into an existence that cultivates strength and does not cultivate the mind. I have uploaded a few chapters in the past, but I feel that the writing is not enough, so I put it down for the time being, and reimagined it for two years, hoping to write a path of spiritual cultivation.