West Mountain, afternoon.
The mountain path winds, flanked by ancient sturdy pines.
The continuous canopy filters sunlight into fragmented spots, scattered on the bluestone-paved steps.
The air carries a refreshing scent of pine needles mixed with damp earth.
The higher one climbs, the quieter it becomes.
Only the rustling of the wind passing through the treetops and occasional bird calls remain.
Halfway up the mountain, an ancient temple is hidden among the trees.
The moss-covered green tiles and flying eaves reveal an isolated serenity steeped in the passage of time.
Three figures quickly ascend the stone steps, finally stopping before the tightly closed vermillion temple gate.
The leading man is tall and sturdy, though his face is somewhat pale, with one arm wrapped in a bandage and slung across his chest.
The young man behind him wears a sullen expression, his brows furrowed with lingering irritation.
