Hua Zhuo, holding the Little Fox in his arms, stepped out of the grand hall and stopped at its entrance, gazing down at Yun Mountain beneath the mountain peak.
The mountain blanketed in a layer of light and thin mist resembled smoke, clouds, and rosy dawn all at once, with rolling hills and a verdant veil shrouded in mist—a picturesque scene.
A gentle breeze brushed past, lifting a corner of Hua Zhuo's robe, and he sensed the air seemed to carry a spirit-like essence.
He looked down at the Little Fox in his arms, who, burying its head, had sweetly nestled and fallen asleep in his embrace. He slowly walked along the green stone path in the mountains, wandering aimlessly.
This part of Yun Mountain had been desolate for perhaps a thousand years.
As the stars shifted and things changed, what remained constant was the scenery of Yun Mountain, day after day, year after year. What changed were the dynasties in the world below and the succession of generations.