On the Gobi Desert of the borderlands, the scorching sun hung like a massive fireball, ruthlessly baking the earth. The air felt as though it had been set ablaze, distorting into rolling waves of heat. The gravel was roasted so intensely that stepping on it felt hot enough to scorch through the soles of boots.
Gu Jinghong's dark cloak snapped wildly in the fierce wind, its hem long since frayed into a jagged, tooth-like edge by the blowing sand. He reined in his mount, which nervously scraped its hooves and let out a series of whinnies, the white mist exhaled from its nostrils instantly vaporized by the searing heat. Gazing at the rolling sand dunes in the distance, he furrowed his brow tightly.
The keen intuition cultivated through years of military campaigns told him that the silence here was far too bizarre—the sand lizards that should have been darting across the Gobi were nowhere to be seen, and even the circling vultures had vanished without a trace. A strange odor hung in the air, a mixture of rust and a sickly-sweet stench, like dried blood intertwined with decaying internal organs, sending a chill down one's spine. He reached out to touch the waterskin at his waist, only to feel a fine crust of salt—the result of days of relentless exposure to the sun.
Chapter 70