In the forest after the mist had dispersed, the air still carried dampness. Chen Wuya stood before the stone bridge, blood seeping from the wound on his shoulder, the cloth stuck to his skin and tugging painfully whenever he moved. He stared at the gray-robed man before him without speaking.
The gray-robed man looked at him, his gaze calm. "You came."
Chen Wuya nodded and pressed his right hand against the broken sword at his waist. The motion was slight, but enough to reassure himself. That battle had drained too much from him; the Misaligned Force in his meridians had nearly reached Severing Current, and now every step felt like treading on crushed gravel.
"Follow me." The gray-robed man turned around, his wooden sword hanging at his side. His footsteps made no sound against the stone slabs.
Chen Wuya followed. Several corpses lay deep within the dense forest behind them, their blood moon marks smeared over with mud and water, no longer spared a glance. He did not look back, keeping his attention only on the figure ahead. The way this man walked was peculiar—not fast, not slow, as though he stepped to a fixed rhythm, each stride exactly the same length.
After passing through three stone gates, the ground gradually sloped downward. The rock walls on either side became smooth, as if they had been shaved flat by a sharp blade. A faint scent of rust hung in the air, mixed with the earthy stench of damp soil.
Further on, the view suddenly opened up.
A half-collapsed stone hall lay buried underground, its roof split by a massive crack through which sunlight slanted down. In the center of the hall stood a broken black stone stele, its tilted body embedded in the ground, its surface covered in cracks. Fragments