From the seashore to the northern snowfields, they had to cross more than half the continent. Shen Xiu and Liu Qingyan were in no hurry. They continued south along the coastline for a while, then turned north on the morning of the third day, passing through the rainforest and Gobi they had once crossed, traversing rolling mountain ranges and vast plains, flying all the way north.
They flew at an unhurried pace, like two migratory birds on their journey. Now and then, they stopped to rest, ate a hot meal in some village or small town, washed their faces by a clear stream, or sat atop an unnamed hill for a while to take in the scenery before continuing on. Liu Qingyan was very pleased with this rhythm. She had never liked rushing from place to place; she felt the journey itself was more interesting than arriving at the destination. Every stop along the way was part of the story, and every stretch of sky and earth they passed through was worth remembering.
After flying for seven or eight days, the scenery beneath them began to change noticeably. The green gradually faded, replaced by calm browns and grays. Trees became sparse, grasslands turned withered yellow, and a hint of chill appeared in the air. Farther north, the brown became gray-white. Vast expanses of bare rock covered the land, with scattered patches of snow wedged between them, as though winter had not yet fully departed. Thin ice formed over the rivers, glinting silver-white beneath the sun like scar after scar across the earth.
Liu Qingyan shrank her neck and took a thick cloak from her bundle, wrapping it around herself before draping another over Shen Xiu. Shen Xiu did not actually feel cold. His body had been condensed from lightning, and