At the same moment, on the other side of the Earth.
Somewhere on the Persian Plateau.
The wind was like countless icy razors, howling as it swept over the bare brown ridges and deeply cut ravines.
Time here seemed to be frozen, leaving only eternal desolation and a sense of deadliness.
An inconspicuous caravan, like a slowly moving beetle, was arduously trekking along an ancient path almost indiscernible due to wind erosion and the passage of time.
The heavy hooves of the camels clattered monotonously and rhythmically on the rubble, the only rhythm in this dead silent world.
Song Heping was wrapped in a dust-covered Arabic robe, his head wrapped in a dark headscarf commonly seen among local herders, with only a pair of keen eagle-like eyes exposed.
The intense UV rays of the highland had etched deeper marks on his face, with dense stubble emerging on his chin, making him blend into this rugged backdrop.
