Above the hall, the torchlight on the gray stone walls flickered slightly, elongating shadows into ever-changing shapes.
Unburnt pine resin rose in wisps of light smoke, gathering at the dome of the hall, where amidst the swirling haze, the Dragon Horn appeared increasingly mysterious and ferocious—as if it still lived within those ancient legends and stories.
The main arena was packed layer upon layer with people, their low murmurs interspersed with occasional exclamations that drowned out all other sounds.
Zhang Tianmiu seemed utterly out of place amidst it all.
He frowned, head bowed, concentrating on smoothing his sleeve with his fingertips, oblivious to his surroundings. After a while, he looked up, scanning around with a sharp gaze.
Soon, he saw his deputy approaching with a tall, tower-like man—by the sound of the footsteps alone, he could tell it was the proprietor of this local inn.
The other man saw him and nodded slightly.
