No one in the north—neither Meng Zhao nor the Northern Lands' Jianghu Martial Arts World—knew anything about what had happened in the south, or about the experts soon to come charging across the river like fierce dragons into the north.
It was early winter. Snowflakes whirled through the air, and the cold wind cut like knives, turning heaven and earth a sheet of pale white.
The rolling mountain ranges in the distance wound like enormous dragons, while the crisscrossing rivers nearby resembled battling serpents.
Even the ever-bustling Yangwu Grand Barracks within Lingwu City had withdrawn into its tents beneath the freezing winds and falling snow.
Heaven and earth lay silent, all things steeped in desolation, lying dormant and gathering strength as they awaited the return of life in spring next year.
Amid the interwoven winds and frost swords, the darkness hidden within the city concealed itself even more soundlessly, unseen by any.
At the end of the Hour of the Pig, dark clouds veiled the moon, while wind and frost still raged. The snow had long since piled a foot deep upon the ground; every step sank into a snow pit, making travel arduous.
Yet several figures drifted through the wind and frost, across the deep snow, leaving no tracks behind. At a glance, they looked like ghosts walking at night, enough to scare a person half to death.
The group arrived three li outside Meng Family Manor. Though the sky was dark and there was no light around them, the manor in the distance glowed with fires and lanterns everywhere, its scattered lights glittering like countless stars. The sight made the newcomers click their tongues in wonder.
"Heh, I'd long heard that Meng Zhao was rich and powerful. Since settling into this Meng Family Manor, he'd repeatedly renovated and