Yang Qing—perhaps he knew, perhaps he didn't—but a small smile curved on his lips when he saw what looked to be a sixteen or seventeen-year-old boy dressed in dark grey robes, with a golden colored robin motif embroidered on the chest and back of his outer robe, walking a few meters ahead of him.
That young man was rapidly rotating his head, faster than the common eye could see. His face was pale, marked by unconcealed dread. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, and despite the fear, they looked tired and hollow. His movements were cautious, as though the ground beneath him might crack. One of his fists was clenched while the other hand rested in a vertical palm.
