With a whoosh, countless night winds swept past, lifting the boundless darkness.
The winter night was cold as water, the vast night sky like an ocean suspended upside down above his head.
Currents surged through the high altitudes in waves, like the tides of the Sea of Stars in the heavens, sweeping over the vast sleeping city below.
Amid such a scene, a figure landed atop the tower in the Central District.
The distant sea of lights flourished, while the tower top high in the air lay pitch-black. His long, burning hem fluttered in the night wind, and the white mist of his breath drifted past his dark eyes.
At the moment he sat here again,
Fang Ran looked at the long-unseen Beijing, his black hair flying wildly.
The winter night was clear and cold. The icy night wind brought the quiet vastness of midnight atop the tower. In that atmosphere, his gaze was tranquil, the brilliant gold of the King of Gods silently flickering around him.
He sat there in a manner completely different from how he had been during the day.
Though nighttime should have been when he slept, it felt as if he had only just awakened.
He recalled the leisure and laziness of the daytime, the laughter and games with everyone, the absence of crises or incidents. That truly had been a time so happy it felt like a dream.
After returning from North America, he had gone back to that everyday life in The Cabin.
But for some reason,
Fang Ran felt as though he were still on that night in New York.
Still at the eve of the "avalanche," when the Golden Iris stock market would crash in another two hours, and losses of more than sixty-five billion US Dollars would trigger a financial