When the wind, thick with black mist and the smell of rust, poured into his nasal cavity, Pi Yanlin's shoe tip had already touched the bluestone slab at the eye of the formation.
He looked up at the churning black mist overhead, where nine chains loomed faintly like nine steel needles suspended above.
"Qinghuan," he stopped abruptly, bending down to fluff the grass cushion, "help me check if this ground is hard."
Chapter 200