The abandoned village lay desolate, with twilight enveloping all.
The middle-aged villager clutched the wooden pole tightly, his eyes simmering with murky anger, his yellowed knuckles turning white from the strain.
Qin An's eyes slightly narrowed, his Cold Star Saber already silently drawn out three inches, the blade and sheath producing a faint metallic ringing.
"In a place supposedly guarded by a benevolent pseudo-god, such hostility toward outsiders is unexpected..."
Qin An thought to himself, his gaze sweeping over the villagers huddled among the ruins.
This desolate village and its inexplicable animosity made him grip the hilt tighter.
This journey was far from ordinary.
The middle-aged villager saw Qin An draw the straight blade from his waist, his pupils dilating sharply, yet he still stood stubbornly in the path.
At this moment, the sound of subtle footsteps came from deep within the crowd.
The villagers parted like a tide, making way for a path.
