A narrow path hidden within the dense forest appeared before Wang Chen.
He had discovered this road not long ago while hunting, and fresh tracks left by travelers or hunters still marked the ground.
Wang Chen followed the path onward.
After traveling more than ten li, the trail became a proper mountain road—the surface paved with thick stone slabs.
The faces of those slabs were dense with the wear of countless years. Who knew how many people had trodden across them, leaving deep imprints behind?
After another li, the road split into two branches ahead.
Left, or right?
Wang Chen hesitated. Rather than make a choice at once, he sat down on a stone beneath a large tree nearby.
The stone was clearly meant for passersby to rest their feet on; it had been polished smooth with use.
Wang Chen removed the waterskin hanging at his waist and took a drink of the cool spring water.
He intended to wait here and see whether any travelers passed by so he could ask for directions, rather than run about like a headless fly.
The facts proved that Wang Chen had made the right decision.
He waited in place for nearly half a shichen before hearing sounds drifting over from afar.
Before long, a mule-and-horse caravan arrived at the three-way junction.
The caravan was not large, with four or five mules and horses and a dozen or so people. Every animal bore heavy cargo, while all the caravan members carried blades and bows on their backs. They were clearly martial artists of some sort.
The leader was Old Foreman, a man with graying temples. He cast Wang Chen a glance from his murky yellow eyes, hesitated, but did not stop walking.
Not until he arrived in front of Wang Chen.
Wang Chen