The prophet walked to the door of the temple, holding a small round heater in his hand.
His white shark silk robe reached his ankles, and his eyes were covered by it. His black hair fell like a waterfall. A gust of cold and wet wind blew in, making the hem of his clothes flutter.
At this moment, he looked like an immortal who could ascend at any moment.
Two divine servants knelt on the ground. They looked at the prophet with reverence.
The shell wind chimes hanging above the door swayed gently, making a crisp sound that kept circling the empty temple.
"No response from the people we sent to Rock City?"
The prophet's voice was clear and cold, falling on the stone slab like jade beads.
The divine servants pressed their foreheads to the floor and replied respectfully, "No."
