The group made their way through the darkness like this. No one spoke, and no one stopped.
They had no idea where the inscribed stone stele they sought was. They knew only to press forward, ever forward.
As they walked, a faint sound gradually arose in the Merit Forest.
At first, they thought it was the wind. On closer listening, however, it was something altogether different.
The sound kept rising all around them, yet they felt no wind blowing past.
Jiang Zhizhou brought up the rear. Every so often, he turned to look behind him, only to see a stretch of darkness.
His expression remained taut. This was his instinctive reaction whenever danger approached.
"Bu Er, protect your young master. Do not leave his side," Jiang Zhizhou instructed.
Bu Er was already walking beside Yang Qing, one hand gripping his sword hilt tightly.
Just then, his nostrils twitched, and a trace of blood scent rushed straight into his lungs.
He stopped and looked at Yang Qing. "Young Master, your hand..."
Only when Yang Qing raised his hand did he discover that his palm had somehow begun bleeding again.
He held his palm up. Bu Er had already taken out a piece of clean white gauze and was about to bandage the wound.
But just then, Yang Qing felt as though something had squeezed his palm hard. The wound suddenly widened considerably, and the smell of blood grew stronger.
"Something's wrong. Everyone, be careful." Jiang Zhizhou moved in a flash, placing himself in front of Yang Qing.
As his words fell, a fierce wind suddenly swept through the previously tranquil forest.
With that wind came an overpowering, foul, fishy stench.
"Did someone knock over a basket of rotten fish?"
Bu Er muttered, but his sword was already out of its sheath.