The gravel path beneath Yan Zixuan’s boots crunched with a sound so ordinary, so peaceful, that it felt louder than thunder.
For the first fifty paces beyond the golden gates, Yan Zixuan walked with his star-iron shield held high before his chest, every muscle in his back coiled like a hardened steel spring. His divine sense swelled cautiously in every direction, probing every flowerbed, every hanging willow branch, and every mossy boulder for hidden spatial arrays, lethal illusion matrices, or dormant soul-binding runes.
He found nothing of the sort.
The brook murmuring beside the path was filled with genuine mountain water. It smelled faintly of crushed mint, wild thyme, and sweet river reeds. In the shallows, fat golden carp with pearl-white scales nibbled lazily at fallen pink blossoms, undisturbed by his armed approach. Above his head, small green sparrows flitted through the canopy of ancient peach trees, chirping cheerful territorial songs as they chased honeybees through the fragrant blossoms.
Even the honeybees seemed strange. They were plump, fuzzy. Then they buzzed with a sleepy, gentle rhythm, fully indifferent to the mortal swordsman who walked among them. Along the edge of the path, planted in neat rows, were beds of spirit herbs: moon-grass, sun-thyme, and fragrant mountain onions, each marked with a small wooden stake upon which someone had painted cheerful reminders in tidy ink: Please don’t step on the mint and Carp are friends, not sashimi.
