On the northern grasslands, the sky had been an unusual pale blue for over a dozen days, so pure that it invoked fear from the depths of one's heart, like the thinnest piece of ice in the smallest river in spring, appearing exceptionally transparent and fragile under the sunlight, as if it might shatter at any moment.
Then the sky would collapse, billions of acres of clouds and mists crashing down, forming an immense whirlwind to sweep across the entire grassland, taking tents, rivers, cattle, sheep, and harvesting the lives of all living things.
This would be the wrath of the Heavenly God.
During these days, herdsmen prayed spontaneously to the Heavenly God every day. From a bird's-eye view, the undulating snow-covered grasslands appeared dotted with countless small black figures, kneeling densely on the grass, arms spread and prostrate on the ground, their sun-darkened faces bowing down, foreheads touching the grass, ice, and snow, filled with piety and obedience.
