In a long, narrow tunnel, faintly lit by moss traversed a stream of water, barely three metres wide. A boat had been travelling on it, moved by its weak currents. Its edges were rugged, covered by moss, and damaged over extended use. The texture was coarse as tiny, hair-thick spikes jutted out of the material due to wear and tear, sharp enough to prick fingers.
Seated on it was Blola, exuding an air of depression. He had been in this dull, humid environment for six months, causing his already gloomy aura to worsen further. On the boat was a few kilograms of Spirit Moss, a treasure valuable enough for cultivators to kill.
But now, they lay before him, uncared for. Blola consumed nothing apart from Spirit Moss for the past six months, fed up by now. Spirit Moss wasn't tasty in the first place. And having consumed the same for so long pretty much killed his taste buds.
