Hum—
The boundless pressure receded like a tide.
Wang Qicang let out a muffled groan. He neither fainted nor collapsed, his feet rooted firmly to the wooden raft. His eye sockets were sunken, his stomach hollow, as though he had been starving for far too long.
The old man sneered, a glint flashing through his eyes.
Bridges suddenly rose between heaven and earth.
Heaven and earth abruptly overturned. When his vision cleared again, Wang Qicang was already standing in a deathly silent world that seemed far removed from the Yangtze River.
This was an ancient land eternally sealed beneath heavy snow.
Wind and snow poured down from the sky, neither hurried nor slow, as if they had flowed here from Taigu. They settled upon countless broken immortal platforms and collapsed ancient towers, layer upon layer, burying past splendor beneath endless white.
As far as the eye could see, there were reeds bent beneath the snow—each one trembling faintly, as though the first gust of wind would summon the war drums of some bygone age.
Those reeds encircled densely packed tombstones.
Every tombstone bore the surnames of the ancient Ye Clan and the war generals of the myriad races from the Three Thousand Universes.
Some had been worn into obscurity by wind blades and snow swords. Others were half-buried in snow, yet the exposed corners still carried an indelible sharpness, as if—even in death—they had to make those who came after understand that those buried here were not petty rats of heaven and earth, but Ye Clan soldiers who had once charged at the forefront across the Three Thousand Immortal Domains.
The fiercer the snowstorm became, the quieter heaven and earth grew.
It was as though even the Heavenly Dao could not bear to disturb this place.
Wang Qicang's throat