Clip-clop, clip-clop.
The small black mountain goat walked out from the depths of the shadowy valley where Zheng Qing and others were, swaggering leisurely as if strolling through the busiest commercial street of Four Seasons Pavilion.
Behind it trailed a dense night, spreading out funnel-shaped as if a massive black cloak, adding an extra layer of deep darkness to the already dim moonlight.
Clip-clop, clip-clop.
The sound of hooves clashing with gravel became the only sound in the world at this moment—lightning hidden behind clouds, the dull bubbling of lava in distant pits within the mountains, the desperate roars of Shub-Niggurath's fully altered followers struggling, the urgent whistles of the Kunpeng Hunting Team hunters, and the intense turning of the mechanism amulet cannon in the dwarf's arms, etc.—none managed to suppress the tiny, steady hoof sounds of the little mountain goat.
Clip-clop, clip-clop.
