The string of the kite had been tied to the shaft of the carriage. The painting floated in the air.
The young Daoist boy did not dare to watch the bitter fighting taking place around him. He used his hands to cover his face, the occasional peek scaring him so badly that his entire body trembled.
The carriage curtain had already been raised. Shang Xingzhou sat on the edge, his feet on the ground.
If Chen Changsheng were here, he would discover that Shang Xingzhou was even older than he had been at Luoyang, his hair having gone completely white.
He held a fan in his hand, and as he slowly waved it, his white hair drifted in the slight breeze.
His eyes were closed. As he listened to the sounds of fighting and blood splashing in the plains, he felt neither revulsion nor intoxication.
He was very calm. When one had reached their final destination, everything they had done and all the people they had met were just a part of the journey.
