The power of Sequence 3 flowed through Yang Yong's body.
Among its techniques was one called "Artifact-Controlled Escape"...
As long as he hid inside the Ten-Thousand-Forged Primordial Furnace, he could rapidly teleport anywhere within sight.
It was his last-resort trump card, one he would never use unless he had no other choice.
But even with a trump card like that in hand, the sense of danger piercing his skin still sent a chill down his spine.
A fine layer of goose bumps rose across his skin, as though countless icy needlepoints were pressing against him at once.
He had not felt anything like this in a long time.
Yang Yong suppressed the agitation in his heart and turned toward Jiang Meng.
Retreating was an option, but which direction offered a way out alive?
The only person here capable of making that judgment was Jiang Meng, the feng shui master.
Before Yang Yong even spoke, Jiang Meng was already moving.
He took a chipped celadon bowl from inside his clothes, set it shakily on the ground, and filled it halfway with water.
Then... he fished seven grains of rice out of an inner pocket and carefully arranged them along the rim.
Next, he recited some incantations Yang Yong could not understand.
Then... came the main event.
"May I ask which direction we should go?"
The old man murmured under his breath, his voice very low, as though discussing it with something.
"Should we head east? If so, let three grains sink and float up..."
The grains floated on the water, completely motionless.
Jiang Meng tried another direction. "South?"
The grains still showed no response.
Sweat began to bead on his forehead.
Beads of sweat the size of beans ran down his wrinkled old face, struck the ground, and shattered into droplets.