The creek water swirled around their calves, nudging Pi Yanlin toward the bank.
He braced one hand against a moss-covered, withered rock and wiped the water from his face with the other. As his fingertips touched the stone surface, he froze—jammed into a crevice was a fragment of faded red cloth, its edges embroidered with gold cloud patterns identical to the weave of the Holy Monarch Cult emblem on Qinglin’s waist.
"Something is wrong with this place." He flicked the red fabric with his finger, sending droplets of water splashing onto Gu Qinghuan’s damp boots.
Chapter 70