Mist enveloped such a colossal body—gloomy, cumbersome, with roofs of russet birch hanging low, about four stories high, it lay like a recumbent giant, silently pondering, stretched across the swamp. The ancient pier led to a row of mottled wooden walls, on sharp wooden stakes hung the swaying lights.
Bright light, passing through the web-like fog, seemed to be the glow within the chest of the giant, bursting forth, penetrating the wilderness. Beside the road lay a campfire, fiery red, spinning and flickering from afar, sparks flying off like shattered pieces.
Such a sight indeed struck Fang Hong with a touch of awe, as if it merged with the night's blue and grey, steeped with the fresh red of blood, carrying a desolate breath, yet somewhat dim.
