Mo Shangjun's clear and concise signature marked the end of their journey.
Mu Qixuan looked up, somewhat surprised.
Upstream of Xiaoxi, there was a pond, nearly twenty meters deep and about thirty meters in diameter, naturally formed. As far as the eye could see, a stretch of emerald green unfolded before them. At first glance, one could even spot fish swimming at the bottom. Water cascaded from the right side of the pond, falling from a height of twelve or thirteen meters and creating a small waterfall.
Directly above the pond grew a centuries-old tree, its trunk curved, slantingly stretching out with nearly half of it hanging suspended over the pond. Its branches sprawled in every direction, laden with dense foliage. It was springtime, and new tender green leaves stood out among the darker ones, adding a touch of decoration.
