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... at marked the bell as well as any drum.

Xinying stood already in the room. She hadn’t bothered with a chair. The stone under her feet was damp in the mortar, the iron rings in the walls black with old weather and older breath.

The air held that cellar smell of vinegar and dust that never entirely left, even when you had it scrubbed hard enough to bruise a brush.

They brought the two that still mattered. Or to be more accurate... the two that were still breathing.

...

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As a top cultivator in the Canglang Realm, Fang Mu has been a little troubled recently.

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