Chen Wuya withdrew his hand from the edge of the crack in the ground, his fingertips stained with damp mud. He rose, brushed the gravel from his trouser legs, and did not look back. Bai Zhi and Mo Feng were still quietly discussing the distribution of the entrances, their voices broken and scattered by the wind.
He turned and headed east.
The ground beneath his feet gradually changed from shattered rock to fine sand, and the sea breeze grew broader and more open. The voices behind him faded farther and farther away until only the sound of waves striking the shore remained. He did not tell them where he was going. He himself did not know why he had to come here. The red mark in his palm was still throbbing, pulse after pulse, as though answering something.
He sat down on a flat reef, crossed his legs, and rested his upturned palms on his knees. Before closing his eyes, he gave the sea one last look. Clouds hung low on the horizon, the water was gray-blue, and waves surged in layer upon layer, exploding against the shore before drawing back.
When the first wave reached his feet, the system suddenly sounded.
[Special fluctuations detected. Recommendation: imitate the movement trajectory of ocean waves.]
He frowned. This was not the time for enlightenment. The matter of the altar had yet to be resolved, Mo Feng's explosive thunderbolts had not been set, and Bai Zhi was still waiting for him to return and discuss the details. Yet that fluctuation was far too distinct. It traveled upward from the soles of his feet, like a certain rhythm knocking against his bones.
He tried to circulate the Canglang Art.
True qi rose from his dantian and traveled once through his meridians, but