It was a run-down and tiny temple, heavily eroded by the wind and rain. Only by virtue of the remaining sacrificial beasts statues on the temple eaves could one faintly make out its original style and use.
Standing before this temple cloaked in the rain, neither Chen Changsheng nor Xu Yourong said anything. It was very quiet.
This was a sacrificial temple.
With the white grass as a path, onwards to the sea of stars, a sacrifice for a thousand li.
The run-down sacrificial temple sat on the side of the White Grass Path. This indicated that their conjecture was correct. The path truly led to some sort of grave—after all, not all graves could be called mausoleums. In the past thousand years, besides the three emperors of the Great Zhou Dynasty, only one person dared to call his tomb a mausoleum and construct it in that style. To this, no one dared to object.
Of course, that person was Zhou Dufu.
