A month later, on the Shata Ancient Road at the foot of Tianshan.
In the drizzling rain, a young man walked along the lengthy road.
His skin was dark, his body emaciated to an extreme, his hair and beard a tangled mess.
Yet, his spine was as straight as a javelin.
This gave his entire figure an indescribable mystical aura.
The clothes the man wore were tattered and torn, barely covering his body.
The backpack he carried was even more battered.
The pack's straps were gone, replaced with two thick vines.
Similarly, vines tightened around the man's calves, giving his entire body a neat appearance.
The only decent item on this man was a yellow gourd hanging at his waist.
The gourd emitted a strong fragrance of wine.
With his long legs striding casually, the man walked on.
His steps, each rising and falling, gave the illusion of rooting into the earth, continuous and unending.
This man was Yang Fei, who had just descended from the peak of Mount Everest.
