The mountain wind, carrying the scent of scorched earth and blood, swept over the desolate forests outside the Capital City.
Li Yan and his group hid deep within a wind-sheltered cave, its entrance cleverly obscured by Long Yan'er with vines and dead branches.
The cave was dimly lit, the air stagnant, accompanied only by the occasional weak, painful murmurs from the Night Crying Man and the crackling of the campfire.
Since the earth-shattering upheaval at the ruins of the Monk Soldier Hall on Anma Mountain and the ensuing Hundred Ghosts Night Parade in Kyoto, they swiftly retreated from that chaotic place to hide among these vast mountains.
Li Yan leaned against the cold rock wall, the Duan Chen Blade resting on his knee, his fingers unconsciously stroking the cord wrapped around its hilt.
His gaze was calm, but a shadow lingered between his brows.
