Just as Zi Hu had said, there indeed was a Sacrificial Altar on the summit of the mountain, its origin obscured by age, quite weathered, yet the carved railings and the copper tripod stood intact, and the ancient, simplistic grandeur still remained.
By that time, the sky had already darkened, and a disk-like bright moon hung in the heavens, its moonlight frost-like, silently casting over the blue stone slabs of the Sacrificial Altar, shining brightly as if it were a mirror, reminding one of countless witches and priests who had worshipped the gods and earth here.
For some unknown reason, this weathered Sacrificial Altar emanated an inscrutable holiness. Surrounded by thousands of mountains and peaks undulating in layers, all was utterly still. Looking up at the vast expanse of the sky and down at the vast land, everyone involuntarily felt a sense of reverence and dared not to whisper or laugh.
