Shen Le slowly bent down, his fingertips hovering over the surface of the yellow sand as they lightly brushed past it.
On the dune that the sandstorm had stripped away in great quantities, a tiny glint was exposed... Though it was only a speck, an area small enough to be circled by thumb and forefinger, Shen Le instinctively narrowed his eyes.
This was...
This was metal, metal buried within the dune and untouched by decay for a thousand years. Its surface was uneven, clearly bearing patterns made by human hands. He could even identify the craftsmanship behind them:
This was the result of chasing. Judging by the refinement of the technique and the style of the patterns, it could even be identified as Tang Dynasty craftsmanship.
And in the deepest parts of the pattern, there remained a trace of black, clinging very firmly. If he was not mistaken, was that the result of silver plating?
In truth, even without that glint, Shen Le felt he would not have missed it. The sandstorm was like a wall; as it pushed forward, it left behind lingering cries and lingering traces along its path.
Like the sand it dropped, most of those traces were thin enough to be blown away with a casual breath, yet some were like stones—stronger and deeper than the rest.
And this bit of metal Shen Le had found was constantly shouting, proclaiming its existence:
The cries, the sounds of slaughter, the clash of weapons and warhorses, the sound of bold songs—all of it was clear enough for even an ordinary person with relatively strong spiritual sensitivity to hear within ten meters.
Of course... whether anyone would ever come within ten meters in this boundless desert was another matter. But Shen Le stood and looked around, then recalled his