In truth, the so-called Sword Washing Pool wasn't far from the plateau where Shen Hao had ascended; walking along a small path pressed tightly against the mountain wall, one incense stick's time would suffice to reach it.
Nor was it as mysterious as imagined—just a pit of chaotic rocks about ten yards square, with some stagnant water inside, and a stone platform facing north big enough for one person to sit. Behind the platform, the mountainside bore a carving: Sword Washing Pool.
If the "Chang Bai" characters at the mountain gate pricked Shen Hao's eyes, daring him not to stare long, then these three words, "Sword Washing Pool," were even fiercer; there was no need to even look—just drawing near within ten yards, his skin tingled with a strange, needling pain.
