The wheels, clad in iron, rolled slowly, leaving behind two deep ruts on the somewhat yellowed grassland.
Sitting atop the carriage, Li Huowang gazed at the grassland before him, recalling his previous visit to this place.
He didn't know much about Qingqiu, aside from the fact that most of its inhabitants were nomadic tribes and that they were lean and dark-skinned. Beyond that, his knowledge was rather limited.
That's right, he also remembered two particularly unusual factions in Qingqiu: the Zhong Yin Temple that worshiped Death, and the peculiar Lion Dance Palace.
"The grass in Qingqiu has really turned yellow. Could this be a sign of something?" Li Huowang leaned slightly to the left, his fingers brushing over the yellow grass.
He then remembered the recent natural disaster, which deprived people of taste and smell but lasted only three short days before vanishing.
This was not a matter for rejoicing. Although the disaster was insignificant, what if the next one was severe?
