Setting aside his strange feelings toward Nan Fenglan, Xiang Yang refocused and walked step by step toward the very end of East Yang Path. The road was already devoid of people; only his footsteps echoed clearly through the empty passageway.
In the end, Xiang Yang passed through the corridor and emerged from the heart of the mountain into a vibrant world alive with birdsong and fragrant flowers. Every color and ray of light seemed to come vividly alive.
Before his eyes sprawled a patch of purple vines. Their branches were like hemp ropes, twisting and tangling into long serpents that bound a gigantic statue of a mirror-bearer, like iron chains in a prison locking it firmly in place.
Three sides were enclosed by iron walls, upon which strange characters resembling tadpole script had been carved in strokes like silver hooks and iron lines. The force behind them was vigorous, like the waters of the Heavenly River pouring down in a mighty torrent for a thousand miles, brimming with oppressive spiritual pressure. Judging by the marks, they had been traced with finger force.
Other than the flowers, grass, and trees, there was only a man whose face was steeped in the vicissitudes of time. His hair was gray-white, and his plain clothes made him look like an old farmer from the fields.
He squatted on the ground, holding an awkward tree branch as he wrote and drew upon the soft earth. His face was full of worry, as though calculating something, utterly unaware that an outsider had arrived.
At the sight of this man, every nerve in Xiang Yang's body instantly tensed. The composure and delight on his face turned to calm stillness as he watched the plain old man's every movement. It was as though he were beholding a vast