Zheng Qing knew little about the conversation outside the teapot.
He vaguely sensed people talking outside, but he could never hear them clearly. From the moment he entered the teapot, he had felt as though he had stepped into a steamer—sealed and sweltering. The sounds outside seemed muffled by a thick quilt, and by the time they reached his ears, they were as faint as a mosquito's buzz.
It kept his consciousness in a perpetual haze.
Yet amid that murkiness, countless motes of different colors swayed and drifted through his Sea of Consciousness. They were like anchors, tugging at his awareness and keeping it from sinking completely into the unknown.
The young wizard curiously touched one of the red motes.
The red mote pricked his fingers, like the tip of a needle.
A tremendous suction force came from within it. After the world spun around him, Zheng Qing found himself standing in a crimson world.
The sky was red. The earth was red. Mountains, rivers, plants, trees, and stones were all red. A small figure stood at the center of that crimson world, head raised and arms spread wide, as though embracing the sky.
Chaotic, noisy whispers echoed through the world, growing louder and sharper. Then the red clouds churned and pressed downward like roaring waves, swallowing that tiny figure.
Thud!
With a deafening crash, the crimson world shattered into fragments, and that wisp of Zheng Qing's consciousness sank back into the haze. The last trace of clarity made him realize—the crimson world had been his dream, a place he had dreamed of many times before.
With that realization, the contents of the other motes became easier to understand.
Within those motes, Zheng Qing saw himself being chased by giants, desperately fleeing beneath enormous shadows. He saw himself driven about