Autumn, the seventh year of the great cause.
On the official road on the north bank of the Yellow River, the muddy water was mixed with withered yellow grass clippings, which were trampled to pieces by a team of tired laborers. Lead-gray clouds hung low on the sky, like a rag soaked in ink, and the wind carried a damp and cold breath into his collar. Ying Galen shivered, and his consciousness finally broke free from the chaos.
"Cough... Cough cough..."
