The rusty wind carried broken glass and whistled among the skeletons of the ruins of Qingyuan City. Wu Jia's military boots stepped on the broken steel bars, making a muffled "creak" sound, like a nerve that was about to break in this apocalyptic world. He stood on the top platform of the "Tianshu Tower", which was once a landmark of Qingyuan City in the old era. Now only half of the tower is charred and black. The top was twisted into a weird arc by the spiritual erosion storm, like a withered hand reaching for the blood moon.
