The mountain wound like a divine dragon for thousands of li, its head and tail nowhere in sight.
The city resembled a ferocious tiger, layer upon layer of savage majesty, its domineering aura arising naturally.
Standing atop the towering, thick-set city wall and facing the howling, fierce gale, Zhang Yang suddenly felt incomparably insignificant.
An immense project built by an entire nation and an entire race over five hundred years, with hundreds of millions invested and countless bones buried beneath it, needed no special description to make one feel awed and dare not act rashly.
Zhang Yang did not even dare release his Soul Force Field, afraid it would be suppressed. This was no illusion—it was an extreme sense of danger brought to him by his keen talent.
Without a doubt, a project capable of suppressing a nation's destiny was beyond the imagination or reach of a mere village chief like him.
"When will my village grow and prosper enough to possess such earth-swallowing, mountain-splitting might, such a tiger-like force stretching ten thousand li?"
His emotions surging, Zhang Yang gazed at the majestic mountains and bleak battlefield as if utterly enamored, completely forgetting that he had already been assigned to the Death Warrior Camp.
He even felt that this was the greatest gain from his journey.
A person's growth could not be separated from knowledge and experience, and it was impossible to say which mattered more.
But if Zhang Yang had to put it into words, knowledge was flesh and blood, obtainable by filling oneself with it; experience was the internal organs, obtainable by tasting every bitterness and sweetness. Only aura, bearing, and backbone were the hardest to grasp.
"Aura must be nurtured by swallowing mountains and rivers; bearing must arise from building iron fortresses. Let the winds and clouds