The night was like a silk cloth soaked in ink, wrapping the stone halls of the Tianming Sect in an impenetrable shroud.
Red lanterns strung together swayed in the mountain wind, casting a cold glare upon the three iron characters of "Tianming Sect." The golden-patterned arrays, nourished by the blood sacrifices of the living, pulsed in the stone crevices like living things.
Pi Yanlin lay half-sprawled on the grassy hillside, his elbow propped against a jagged rock as he gazed up toward the stone hall. His cloth shoes were pointed upward, kicking at the wild chrysanthemums beside him with languid indifference. A sense of sloth rose from his very marrow, coloring even his breathing with a slow, leisurely rhythm. "Shall we mount a frontal assault, or rely on wit?"
Chapter 216