A stretch of land roughly two million square kilometers in area was like a gigantic cake, exuding an enticing fragrance.
Zhang Yang stood beneath the vast starry sky, intoxicated by the sight, while also agonizing over how to make the first cut. After all, this was neither a village nor a city.
Besides, although he had to develop this fragment of the True Realm properly, he had not come here to play a strategy game.
Because danger had never gone far, and the pressure of survival had always been there.
"Comprehensive development is impossible. The story has to begin here."
Zhang Yang lightly tapped the void with his hand. Ripples like water patterns spread outward, resembling an ink-wash painting.
At first, there was a sharply angular stone. Then a man carrying a sword appeared atop it. His face could not be seen, but one could faintly sense the vicissitudes clinging to him.
A black-and-white fallen leaf drifted down in circles. A great tree appeared in the picture, its branches luxuriant and its leaves flourishing. The colors gradually changed from black and white into a riot of hues: the tender green and pale yellow of spring, the emerald and blue-black of summer, the fiery red and deepening tones of autumn, and the bleak black and white of winter.
Day after day, year after year.
Moss gradually covered the sharply angular stone. The great tree flourished and withered again and again, but the back of the sword-bearing man never changed.
He was like a statue, keeping watch over something.
Slowly, the earth turned green. The scars that had once riddled it disappeared. A well appeared in the picture, ancient, weathered, and mysterious.
The picture began to spread outward. First, a hunter appeared in one corner. Then a simple thatched hut.
A husband,