At the foot of White Tiger Mountain, behind a leeward earthen slope.
Chu Fan slung the longbow over his back and glanced toward the distant horizon.
A sliver of pale light had appeared on the edge of the deep blue sky.
The last few sparse stars were slowly fading from view.
The surrounding darkness gradually receded, and the outlines of distant mountains slowly emerged from the ink-black void, like great beasts just stirring from their slumber.
The wind was chilling, carrying the unique crispness of the hour before dawn.
A shadow flickered in Chu Fan's eyes.
Ever since the nightmare last night, the images from his dream had been haunting him like specters, impossible to shake off.
A heavy weight seemed to be pressing on his chest, making it hard to breathe.
Beside him, Zhao Tianxing was already packed and ready.
He watched Chu Fan, his expression tinged with worry.
Ever since waking from his dream last night, Chu Fan hadn't slept a wink.
