Muyin stood at the summit of the peak, her robes fluttering like clouds in the wind, her eyes reflecting the final smear of setting sun at the horizon. With a light touch of her fingertip, she caressed the jade flute at her waist. The flute was ice-cold, yet dark, blood-like patterns seemed to flow across its surface. "Ming Feng, do you know where these blood patterns come from?" she asked with a sudden, soft chuckle. "Every single line here is formed from the souls of the dead..."
Before her voice had even faded, the jade flute let out a piercing, shrill hum, startling the resting birds in the forest into chaotic flight.
The past lay vividly before them. Ming Feng's wide dark sleeves stirred without wind, and the faint light and shadow of the twenty-eight lunar mansions flickered within the Star Disk concealed in his folds.
Chapter 127