Before the morning mist had dissipated, the Xuan'an Bureau’s blue-clothed carriage was already rumbling over the gravel road on the outskirts of the city.
Pi Yanlin lifted the curtain and gazed at the vermilion, crumbling walls half-hidden in the mountain hollow. A muffled sigh escaped his throat—though the eaves of Guiyuan Temple were covered in moss, they held an indescribable sense of stagnation, heavy and damp, like an old rag soaked in sewage that made one's chest feel stifled.
"We’re here," Gu Qinghuan’s voice came from outside.
Chapter 25