The wind of the Ten-Thousand-Mile Blood Plains always carried the raw, acrid tang of pulverized rust.
The red mist seemed alive, weaving among jagged, grotesque rocks and letting out whimpers like the wailing of ghosts and howling of wolves.
Chu Bai's figure flickered in and out of the red fog.
His originally jet-black fighting clothes were now coated in dark red dust. Only the dark gold dragon-patterned mask on his face gleamed with cold, unyielding resolve beneath the dim sky.
Five li ahead, the once-faint aura of greenwood suddenly grew much richer.
At the edge of his vision appeared a valley wrapped in countless enormous thorny vines.
Every vine was as thick as a water vat, its surface an eerie ink-green and covered in hooked thorns. Through the gaps between the brambles, he could faintly make out flowing runic radiance—a typical immortal cultivation formation, utterly at odds with the rugged wilderness.
The bone token spun in midair, releasing a ring of gentle blue-green ripples. The ancient cloud pattern upon it, marking the highest token of the Wu Saint Tribe, stood out sharply against the blood-colored backdrop.
The commotion inside the formation instantly subsided.
A moment later, the thorny vines, solid as walls of bronze and iron, slowly writhed apart, opening a gap just wide enough for one person.
A middle-aged cultivator in blue-gray robes emerged. His face was lean, his eyes sunken, and bluish stubble covered his chin. Clearly, he had not rested for days.
This was Fang Mu, the True Spirit Society's steward stationed with the Osmanthus Tribe.
Fang Mu did not immediately let him through. Instead, he studied Chu Bai through a thin barrier of spiritual light, his gaze complicated.
When he saw Chu Bai's bearskin cloak, damaged yet still visibly made of exceptional material, and the eyes