The moon hung at midheaven. A light breeze stirred the idle clouds drifting across the vast sky, and dim starlight fell, yet it could not disperse the gloom weighing upon people's hearts.
In a decrepit, abandoned temple, the crudely shaped statue of the Mountain God had long since collapsed. Only half its dust-covered body remained standing there.
In the darkness, rustling sounds rang without end. No one knew how many snakes, insects, rats, and ants were reveling within the shadows.
Zeng Mozhou raised the gourd beside him and poured the clear, strong wine down his throat. Even the fiercest muddy wine in this mortal world could not numb the mind of a Void Step expert. It merely ladled hot oil over the regret burning in his heart, making the pain all the more violent.
This night was destined to belong to the disheartened.
A conspicuous saber wound lay across his chest. Like a thousand-legged centipede, the winding gash stretched from his left shoulder all the way to his lower abdomen, with fresh crimson flesh occasionally seeping a drop or two of blood.
This was the saber wound Feng Buxing had left behind. The condensed fist intent of a Fifth Grade martial artist still penetrated the wound, and only time could heal it.
Seven days had passed.
Seven days had passed since the winds and clouds over Jiankang City had changed color.
Every day had been like suffering torment in the Netherworld for Zeng Mozhou.
Su Gui's killers and assassins seemed to slip through every crack, while his own whereabouts remained firmly in their grasp. Wherever Zeng Mozhou went, Su Gui's men would hunt him down before long.
And the root of it all lay with Old Su.
Zeng Mozhou looked at his left hand. A faint finger mark lay in