Mu Rong stopped speaking. He spun around and leaped over the railing, his figure quickly vanishing down the inn's corridor.
All the way there, he pushed his speed to the utmost.
His heart felt as though a giant hand had seized it and squeezed tight. Every leap brought a tearing pain.
His heart raced like his feet.
He didn't dare believe it. He couldn't believe that Old Monk's words had been true.
Old Monk's long face, crisscrossed with wrinkles, and his kindly smile seemed to rise before his eyes once more.
"That can't be... It must be a lie..."
But when that familiar village entrance appeared before him, all his hopeful imaginings were cruelly shattered.
There was no longer the bustle of the past, nor the children chasing one another and playing with ghosts. Instead, the villagers' screams for help filled the air.
The entire village lay dead, as silent as a grave.
Dust filled the air, carrying a thick stench of blood and decay.
The village's stone marker lay toppled to one side, broken into pieces.
Step by step, he advanced along the stone path beneath the pass. The road was stained a dark crimson with blood.
The houses lining the road had their doors and windows wide open. Some had even collapsed, and the walls were pocked with deep wounds from blades and weapons.
He saw the village elder collapsed at the entrance to his own home. He saw the uncle who had been in the fields... Every face was familiar to him.
They all wore the expressions of those who had died in agony. Their faces were twisted with pain and unwillingness.
There were no survivors.
Mu Rong's tall frame began to tremble uncontrollably.
When he reached the courtyard in front of the village head's house, the