The canopy of ancient, gnarled ironwood trees hung like a suffocating shroud over the hidden hollow, blotting out the sun and bathing the moss-covered clearings in eternal, twilight gloom.
The air smelled of damp earth, pulverized stone, and the sharp, ozone tang of lingering sword intent that had permeated the ground for countless eras.
Here, untouched by the chaotic wars tearing through the whole world, rested a forgotten hamlet of weathered timber cabins and moss-grown flagstones.
At right now, in this small village, an eerie, breathless tranquility reigned over the central courtyard.
Shen Xinye was here, sitting on her knees.
Her breath was imperceptible, as tranquil and calm as an unruffled lake frozen in deep winter.
Draped in plain, practical azure robes trimmed with simple silver thread, she sat upon a worn woven straw mat.
