Wudang Golden Summit.
The sky was gray and overcast, as though rain was coming.
By the time Lian Youming returned, all was quiet up above.
Neither the Old-Era Martial Artists nor Li Da and his companions were anywhere to be seen.
Apart from the traces of fighting on the ground, even the blood had been cleaned away.
Dead silence reigned.
Who had won? Which side had prevailed?
Lian Youming worried about everyone's safety, but the moment his internal breath quickened, it aggravated his internal injuries and brought on a violent fit of coughing.
"Cough, cough..."
Suddenly, he caught sight of what looked like a sheet of paper weighed down inside the Golden Hall.
"Senior Brother, we have won and are returning south. All the true Daoist cultivators on the mountain have been freed. Do not worry!"
It was a letter Xie Ruomei had left.
Thank goodness.
Lian Youming let out a small breath of relief.
But it was too soon to celebrate.
A battle at the Mystic Connection level was still raging in the South, its outcome unknown. He had to return as quickly as possible.
He had no time to think it over. He turned and prepared to descend the mountain.
But just as he reached the mountain path, his body suddenly jolted. Every hair at the back of his neck stood on end, as though he had encountered some inconceivable existence.
After standing rigid for several seconds, Lian Youming gripped the railing and slowly turned his head to look back at the Golden Hall. As he gazed at the flame flickering ceaselessly in the autumn wind inside, the muscles at the corner of his eye twitched violently for no apparent reason.
When he had gone inside earlier, that oil lamp seemed to have been out.
There was no