The moment he entered the Stone House, he could smell none of the expected decay, ruin, or choking stench. Instead, the air carried a fragrance like sandalwood, soothing the heart and sharpening the spirit.
Meng Zhao found this quite strange. Judging by the passage of time, if this place had truly been arranged by Kou Huaizhen, who knew how many years had passed since then? Over such a vast span of time, even a person's bones would have long since crumbled without a trace. Yet this place still retained fresh air and a rich fragrance, making it difficult not to be surprised.
Moreover, the place was sealed on all sides, with no windows and only a doorway wide enough for one person. The entire environment was exceedingly dim, like a winter night—chilly and dark.
Still, there was a doorway after all. The faint light from outside shone in, leaving the Stone House veiled in a hazy gloom, yet making it much brighter. Coupled with Meng Zhao's exceptional eyesight, he could see everything clearly enough.
The whole room had no special arrangements. On the north wall of the Stone House hung a painting, and beneath it sat a bright yellow meditation cushion. There was nothing else; in short, its four walls were bare.
Meng Zhao went straight to the point, taking several steps to the painting on the north wall and studying it carefully.
It was a portrait, and a portrait of a Daoist.
The man in the painting wore a Daoist crown. His cheeks were gaunt, his long slender brows drooped to the corners of his eyes, and his body was extraordinarily tall. He held a whisk in his hand and stood atop a Mystic Crane, looking immortal and ethereal, with the bearing of one who commanded all Daoists.
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