The wind of late spring carried the smell of scorched earth into his collar, and Lin Xuanqing staggered across a section of the scorched beam.
In the ruins of Daci Temple behind him, the last few wisps of smoke were being torn away by the evening breeze, revealing the mottled word "Pu Du" on the broken wall - it was the plaque written by the Master with twenty years of hard work. It was now broken into three pieces, half of which was buried in the rubble, and half of which was hung on the tilted prayer flag pole.
"Qing'er."
The memory was suddenly pulled back seven days ago.
The master's skinny hands grasped his wrist, and the knuckles were so white that they were almost transparent.
Outside the Buddhist hall, the demonic mist was creeping in through the cracks in the door, blackening the last ever-burning lamp on the altar table. "The world is about to change." The old man's voice sounded like a broken bellows. "The hundred-year-old demon disaster is twenty years in advance. Daci Temple cannot defend it... But you have to get out."
