When the clouds tore apart, seventeen-year-old Chu Ye was digging grass on the edge of the cliff. The pickaxe hit the rock and sparks burst out, making his jaw numb. The grass blades that should have been withered and yellow were abnormally bloodshot, and the rusty sword fragments entangled in the roots were exuding black mucus-this thing was not there yesterday.
"It took me a long time to pick the medicine. It's really a waste of spiritual roots." There was a sneer from behind. Zhao Ming pressed his toes against Chu Ye's backpack, and three shining jade plaques from the outer gate were dangling around his waist. He deliberately kicked down a piece of gravel. The stone fell into the abyss, and it took six seconds for the echo to be heard.
