On a snowy, wind-lashed night, a group of five headed toward the city gate through the swirling blizzard.
Throughout an entire continent, most cities were such ruined, desolate ghost towns, like withered skeletons that had yet to rot. When the wind swept through the city, it sounded like someone blowing a bone flute.
The lean young man had long brows and narrow eyes, a cold, severe face, and a saber tucked beneath his arm.
He held an exceptionally compacted snowball, tossing it repeatedly from one hand to the other.
The old man was broad and sturdy, his steps steady, but he kept coughing as though unable to bear the cold wind.
A middle-aged man in a padded robe wore a sword at his waist.
The other two walked closer together. One was a solidly built man with an ancient-looking face, carrying a bundle slung across his shoulder.
The woman was tall and not particularly striking in appearance, but she radiated heroic spirit. A long saber in a black sheath hung at her waist, its hilt made of poplar wood.
The young man asked softly, "That person really is inside this ghost city? Mr. Zeng, do you think he discovered our trail long ago?"
The man in the thick blue padded robe nodded with a smile. "He knew long ago."
The old man coughed several times. Snow fell thickly between heaven and earth, yet every snowflake approaching him melted of its own accord. White mist billowed around him, heat rising in waves.
Those who cultivated upon the mountain had the advantage. They could observe qi from afar, Palm Views Mountains and Rivers, rely on the rippling changes in Heaven and Earth Spiritual Energy, or even divine another person's whereabouts through hexagrams.
Pure Martial Artists, even an old man who was a