Yun Rong sat on a tree branch, squinting at the gradually dimming horizon, lazily yawning as the sun set and the daylight faded away.
They say cold comes and heat goes, autumn harvest and winter storage.
But in this small Zhoushan, there is no division of the four seasons, with plenty of sun and rain, and it belongs to Penglai.
Although considered a mortal mountain, it is still different from the mortal world.
It was springtime, and the rice in the fields was already largely mature, swaying in the gentle breeze over the mountains, golden waves rippling, and the wheat ears swaying like waves of gold, rising and falling.
As the daylight faded, the golden wheat also gradually became desolate and dim in the dusk, the chill in the wind adding to the melancholy.
Yun Rong removed the Snow Sword, placing it on her lap, leaning against the big tree, head resting on her arm, yawning incessantly.
