Withered vines, an old tree, a somber crow.
Across the mountains and fields, the world was a vast expanse of white. A dilapidated, broken-down thatched hut sat in the snow, as conspicuous as a smudge on a pristine white page.
The next moment, a gentle breeze blew past.
"CREAK..."
With a soft sound, the door of the thatched hut was nudged open by the cold wind, vaguely revealing the interior—a silent, profound darkness.
If someone were standing outside at this moment and looked in, they would be surprised to find they could see almost nothing. Their eyes would meet only darkness. Only a Cultivator with sufficiently profound Cultivation could vaguely discern what seemed to be an ancient bronze lamp placed within the gloom.
"THUD!"
The next second, as if it had gained sentience, the hut's door ignored the buffeting of the cold wind and slammed shut, becoming perfectly still without another sound.
"Haaa..."
