The Old Monk Thought You Had Some Kind of Serious Illness

With a long neigh, the tall horse snorted softly. Its sandalwood-colored mane curled slightly, and its ink-black eyes, each as large as a goose egg, looked down at Tang Yuyang, who did not even reach its height.

"Good horse, don't make a fuss. Wait a little longer; I'll find you something to eat soon."

Leading the increasingly restless horse, a group of more than ten people looked around warily, following closely behind. Ahead of them walked two plainly dressed monks, one old and one young.

Dusk had settled. In this relatively quiet little city, the wind swept up several yellowed scraps of funeral paper, carrying them over the threshold to stick to the dust-covered boots of the newcomers.

They looked utterly travel-worn.

The old monk at the front remained unhurried, while the oddly dressed people behind him whispered among themselves.

"—There haven't been any signs of living people. Even the dogs have stopped barking. It's probably either demons or a plague. The sick have died, and the rest have fled."

"Come on, brothers. Soak this cloth with water, mix in this powder, and use it to cover your noses and mouths."

"Damn, this is—this is something from 'home,' isn't it? How did you bring it in?"

"Don't mention it. There must have been restrictions. Almost everything we brought disappeared when we arrived. Only a few little things, like this field powder, remained on us—"

It was not empty talk. They had not been in the city long before encountering more than one corpse lying by the roadside, already rotting and reeking so badly that no one wanted to go near.

Instead, the old monk at the front spoke up and had the half-grown novice step back. "Shifang, your cultivation is still insufficient. You cannot withstand this foul stench. Let your