The farther north they went, the lower the sky seemed.
This was not poetic exaggeration, but a genuine physical sensation.
As the latitude increased, the sky truly seemed to be tilting downward, pressing closer.
The once lofty, clear blue vault of heaven gradually took on a hazy gray tint. The clouds hung low, as though one could reach up and tear off a piece.
Even the sun became miserly. It no longer generously poured out light and warmth, instead hanging weakly at the horizon like an elderly man in his twilight years, emitting a pale, feeble glow.
The landscape was quietly changing.
The once lush, vibrant broadleaf forests had, without them noticing, been replaced by more cold-resistant coniferous woods.
Straight, towering cedars, firs, and spruces stood upon the increasingly barren land like ranks of silent guards, clad in dark green needles.
The vegetation on the ground grew sparse. The thick layer of humus had vanished, replaced by exposed rock and the lichen and moss clinging stubbornly to it.
The air had changed as well.
The fragrance of grass and trees and the moist scent of earth once carried by the wind had been replaced by something sharper and drier.
That scent carried a faint, metallic chill.
It was the prelude to a cold current blowing thousands of kilometers from the distant Great Northern Ice Plains—the breath of a world of ice and snow.
Han Yuchen rode a black horse he had just bought in a border town.
The horse was not particularly exceptional, but it had good endurance and was suited for long journeys.
Its hooves struck the small path carpeted with pine needles and gravel, producing a steady clopping sound—the only accompaniment on this silent northern road.
He held an ancient book bound in parchment, seemingly absorbed in reading.