After days of pouring rain, the storm had eased significantly, like a misty veil, with fine rain threads pattering gently on the ground, rippling circles in the puddles.
At night, rainy Old Dunling resembled a surreal underwater world, steam rising from the underground, smashed by raindrops before it could even rise, and the biting chill accompanied every traveler, lingering like a ghost that couldn't be dispersed.
There was no one on the streets anymore; nobody liked traveling in such weather. The night was uncomfortably quiet, with only the faint sound of hooves echoing in the darkness, announcing that mounted police were still on patrol.
Specks of dim light rose from the darkness, and Red Falcon emerged, tossing his still-burning cigarette into the puddle at his feet.
He didn't smoke much, but in this dreadful weather, it seemed to be the only thing warming his body, though largely just as a psychological comfort.
