A low buzz of murmurs, several hundred people gathered together, an air of strangeness hanging over everything.

In these first few hours, the Start-of-Autumn gathering had, in truth, taken quite a few unexpected turns.

From the moment Lu Tuizhi had proposed the poetry contest, the earlier chill that had settled over the gathering after the brawl had gradually begun to lift. Whether it was Lu Tuizhi himself or the several elders capable of steering the mood of a room, all were men well practiced in the arts of navigating officialdom and worldly affairs, thoroughly skilled at lightening an atmosphere. With Lu Tuizhi setting Hangzhou itself as the theme, the natural expectation was that fine verses would follow one after another, everyone comparing and admiring each other’s work in good cheer — by all rights, nothing more unusual should have come of it.

And yet, the mood began to grow strange again — though this time, quite differently from the earlier tension and awkwardness.

“‘Southeast’s finest scenery, the metropolis of the Three Wu, Qiantang has flourished since ancient times’… This ‘Watching the Tide’ is grand indeed, but…”

“Never seen anything like it before…”

“That rhyme scheme…”

Discussion buzzed through the crowd like a low hum. Across the forty-two round tables — merchants here, scholars there, and women who’d come accompanying their husbands’ families — everyone was murmuring to one another. At the front of the main hall, the scholars who had gathered together were frowning as they discussed the piece as well; some who had been in the middle of composing their own poems had found themselves unable to help but pause. What they were discussing… was strange indeed.

Lou Shuwan and her husband Song Zhiqian pressed forward as well, exchanging quiet greetings along the way with a few acquaintances, both peers and elders. Just moments before, amid the crowd, Ning Yi had finished composing his lyric — this was the very first piece he’d written since arriving in Hangzhou, and thus the standard by which everyone judged his reputation as First Talent of Jiangning. From the very moment his brush first touched the page, word of the piece he was writing had already begun to spread from those nearby outward through the crowd. By rights, whether a given lyric was good or bad should have been something these highly accomplished scholars could judge quickly enough — but that strange atmosphere had, in fact, begun spreading even as the piece was still being written. By the time the first half was done, the whole hall had already been drawn into a wave of indescribable, hushed murmuring.

By the time he’d finished the piece entirely, that same strange mood still lingered. Though Lou Shuwan and her husband had caught the whole thing in fragments as it was recited, they still couldn’t help but go over for a closer look. Amid the crowd of scholars gathered there, the sheet of paper bearing Ning Yi’s lyric had already been handed to Lu Tuizhi, who couldn’t resist coming to examine it himself. He read it over, brow furrowed in thought, glancing occasionally at Ning Yi, murmuring now and then: “What grandeur in this piece… ‘Watching the Tide’…” But he never once offered a clear verdict aloud — a notable departure from his original intent of lifting the mood of the gathering.

Once he’d finished writing, Ning Yi had simply said: “I offer this ‘Watching the Tide’ for all of you to correct and refine.” It had originally been meant as mere polite convention — but given the mood in the room just then, it truly did feel as though a crowd of people were now poring over it to find fault.

Lou Shuwan craned her neck to look. The rice paper still lay on the table, the characters written in a light, effortless hand — though Lou Shuwan had never before seen calligraphy quite like it. She didn’t dwell on that, though, focusing instead on the content. The title, naturally, was the three characters “Wang Hai Chao” — Watching the Tide — and now, for the first time, she could read the piece in full, murmuring it aloud to herself.

“Southeast’s finest scenery, the metropolis of the Three Wu, Qiantang has flourished since ancient times… mist-wreathed willows, painted bridges, wind-brushed curtains of kingfisher green, a hundred thousand households scattered close together. Clouds and trees ring the sandy embankment, angry waves roll like frost and snow, the natural moat stretches without end… markets lined with pearls and jade, homes filled with silk and damask, all vying in extravagance.”

The grandeur and splendor of this piece struck the eye like thunder from the very first line, and the lines that followed painted a scene so vivid it felt, for a moment, like unrolling a painted scroll — grand in scale, and yet never once slipping into shallow show. Even in this first half alone, the entire character of Hangzhou had been rendered whole, and even Lou Shuwan, a lifelong resident of the city, found herself briefly entranced.

She looked over toward Ning Liheng, who was now walking off to one side, hand in hand with his wife. Out of curiosity, she had gone over his other pieces many times before, and though she’d already been deeply impressed by the grandeur of his craft, she still found herself trembling faintly at this new piece. After all, she was witnessing the very scene of its composition firsthand — and it was precisely this that made the murmuring, thoughtful expressions all around her seem so strange. She turned to read the second half.

“Layered lakes and folded peaks, pure and lovely, with three autumns’ worth of cassia blossoms, ten miles of lotus flowers. Reed pipes play beneath clear skies, water-chestnut songs drift through the night, old fishermen and lotus-picking girls, joyful and at ease. A thousand riders escort the high banners… listening to flutes and drums while drunk, chanting and admiring the misted glow. Someday I shall paint this fine scene and boast of it upon my return to the phoenix pool…”

The prose remained just as ornate throughout, glittering like fireworks, gleaming like amber. She read it through softly to the end, then glanced at her husband beside her, whose brow was likewise furrowed. By now Lu Tuizhi had already carried the paper over toward Qian Xiwen and the others; the elders there had already begun murmuring something under their breath, exchanging complicated glances, even tapping their fingers against the table as though marking out some hidden rhythm. Meanwhile, off to one side of the hall, several courtesans carrying pipa and guqin had drawn nearer as well, some craning their necks forward eagerly, like swans reaching for something just out of grasp — being of low status, they dared not press forward too boldly, and could only wait for someone to formally copy out the lyric and bring it over to them.

“Husband, that lyric is quite good, isn’t it? What’s the matter — why is everyone acting like this…”

Amid the crowd, Su Tan’er found herself sharing the very same confusion as Lou Shuwan. In truth, Ning Yi producing the piece didn’t automatically guarantee glowing praise — after all, this gathering wasn’t being held for him alone, and others nearby were writing as well; whether or not people chose to comment on his work was entirely their own affair. Su Tan’er understood enough to grasp the meaning of the piece, but judging the relative merits of top-tier poetry was another matter entirely, well beyond her. And this was, moreover, the first time she’d ever accompanied her husband to such a gathering, the first time she’d truly seen him display his talent before others in person — and given how much she, in her heart, longed to witness that romantic, talented side of a gifted man, this occasion held real anticipation for her. Once he’d finished writing, she assumed without question that the lines must be exceptional — and yet the crowd’s reaction was proving far stranger than she’d expected.

Ning Yi then led her, head bowed and uneasy, over to sit at a nearby round table. Her hand was still held in his; only once she saw that none of the scholars nearby had ventured any closer did she finally dare ask quietly: “What… what’s wrong with that lyric…” Behind her, Xiao Chan asked curiously as well: “Yes, yes, what’s wrong? Is it not well written?” Ning Yi glanced at the two of them, then simply laughed without answering. Su Tan’er frowned, pursing her lips, utterly puzzled, while Su Wending, who had followed along the whole time, leaned over from a nearby chair.

“Second Sister, have you ever heard of this tune-pattern, ‘Wang Hai Chao,’ before?”

“Er… I… I don’t think so. What of it…”

Su Wending regarded Ning Yi with a complicated expression, whether admiration or something closer to disbelief, and said quietly: “Brother-in-law, did you invent that tune-pattern yourself, just now?”

Ning Yi glanced at him, then at Su Tan’er, and laughed as well: “Mm. There wasn’t a tune-pattern by that name before…”

“He invented a new tune-pattern?” Beside them, Lou Shuwan’s eyes widened as well, hardly able to believe what she was hearing from her husband’s own mouth. Song Zhiqian’s brow furrowed. “That’s right. This lyric of his is magnificent, grand beyond measure, and the rhyme scheme is… exquisite as well. And to think he invented the tune-pattern himself — this one move alone is enough to crush everyone else here… Even if he’d composed this tune-pattern earlier for Hangzhou and only brought it out now, it would still be a staggering thing to witness.”

For a moment, no one dared venture an opinion on whether the lyric was good or bad — or rather, no one was willing to render a judgment just yet at all.

This piece — “Southeast’s finest scenery, the metropolis of the Three Wu” — under the title “Wang Hai Chao,” had, in its original form, been the creation of the poet Liu Yong; before this piece, no tune-pattern by that name had existed at all.

As for the origins of the various tune-patterns, their histories varied a great deal — some tracing back to the Tang dynasty, even as far as the Han, evolving out of the various song-forms and folk melodies of the yuefu tradition. In the Tang dynasty, mainstream literary men had focused primarily on formal poetry, treating song-lyrics as a minor pursuit unworthy of much attention — but over time, by the era of the Wu dynasty, much as in the historical Song dynasty, these song-lyrics had developed into a genre substantial enough to rival poetry itself in stature. A lyric corresponded to a melody, with fixed line lengths and rhyme schemes; sung by courtesans, it followed a set pattern of performance. Some tune-patterns had been established when a particular person composed a particular piece on a particular occasion, fixing its form once and for all; others had gradually evolved and refined themselves through countless iterations over time. But one thing was certain: no one could simply dash off some clumsy verse on a whim and declare it their own newly invented tune-pattern.

The line lengths and rhythmic structure of a proper tune-pattern had to withstand real scrutiny — read aloud in the fixed manner everyone used, it had to flow like a song, with proper rhyme and pleasing sound. And in the mouths of the courtesans who performed them, even without any written musical score, they could still sing these lyrics aloud — in this era, poetry and song had, from their very origins, always carried within them the manner of their singing.

This was precisely why the courtesans had reacted to this particular lyric with such heightened sensitivity.

To compose an entirely new tune-pattern on the spot — or even not on the spot, for that matter — required a mastery of poetic craft on the level of a true master. Everyone here had assumed that even Hangzhou, for all its wealth of talent, held no shortage of top-tier poetry — but now that Ning Yi had suddenly displayed a feat like this, not a single person present believed themselves capable of matching it.

They found themselves unable, and unwilling, to render any immediate judgment on the piece’s merit — and worse still, they couldn’t find a single flaw in this newly invented tune-pattern either. That, more than anything, was what left everyone’s feelings so thoroughly conflicted.

The manuscript was passed to Qian Xiwen, then to Mu Bochang and Tang Xiuxuan; the elders murmured over the tune-pattern’s structure and rhyme scheme, while Lu Tuizhi and the others discussed it as well. In truth, Lu Tuizhi was quite taken with it — he had, after all, chosen Hangzhou as the theme himself, and having the crowd produce such a magnificent tribute to the city amounted, in effect, to an achievement of his own. He couldn’t help but murmur the lines aloud with a sigh, shaking his head: “‘A thousand riders escort the high banners… listening to flutes and drums while drunk, chanting and admiring the misted glow. Someday I shall paint this fine scene and boast of it upon my return to the phoenix pool…'” These lines moved him most of all — though a moment later, a flicker of surprise crossed his face. Beside him, Tang Xiuxuan chuckled softly as well.

“‘Someday I shall paint this fine scene and boast of it upon my return to the phoenix pool’… Elder Qian, he refused your proposal just now, and yet who would have guessed he harbors such ambition in his heart after all.”

Qian Xiwen shook his head with a wry laugh: “Judging purely by craft, these lines are close to flawless — but for him to write them just now feels, frankly, a touch contrived.”

Mu Bochang’s usually stern face broke into a faint smile as well: “Everyone worked so hard to press him earlier — this is his way of yielding gracefully, written for all our Hangzhou talents to see. After this piece, surely all past grievances can be laughed away…”

The lines in question — “A thousand riders escort the high banners… listening to flutes and drums while drunk, chanting and admiring the misted glow. Someday I shall paint this fine scene and boast of it upon my return to the phoenix pool” — spoke, roughly, of a thousand cavalry escorting a high official, drinking and listening to flutes and drums, admiring the misted scenery, and one day painting this fine view to boast of before others upon returning to the capital in triumph. To scholars and officials nursing ambitions of career and advancement, such lines painted precisely the ideal future they longed for — but given that Ning Yi had, only moments earlier, turned down Qian Xiwen’s proposal, there was something faintly disingenuous about writing such lines now. Of course, on further reflection, it was clear enough what he intended: not wishing to provoke further public anger, he’d used these lines to flatter the crowd a little, offering a gesture of reconciliation.

A good many of the scholars present sensed this same meaning as well, and their expressions toward Ning Yi softened somewhat; some came over to greet him, offering praise: “Brother Ning, what remarkable talent — this lyric is truly excellent, and will surely be sung by everyone for years to come…” After all, having demonstrated such extraordinary talent, there was little harm now in extending him some goodwill, however calculated.

And so, in that same moment, Lu Tuizhi came forward smiling as well, setting Ning Yi’s lyric alongside the poems and verses of the others — the difference in quality was plain enough to see, the rest largely serving as mere accompaniment, but since this was, after all, a literary gathering meant for making friends, and the mood of camaraderie now ran even deeper than before, there was no need to press too urgently for a clear ranking. Whoever understood the truth of it could simply keep it to themselves. But in that same moment, a strange undercurrent — one most people would never have noticed — began quietly spreading through the crowd, as though someone had suddenly grasped something, causing not a few to turn startled glances toward Ning Yi, only to look away again just as quickly.

That particular feeling had first arisen, in fact, among Hangzhou’s most celebrated literary talents. Here in Hangzhou, those spoken of as the foremost talents included He Qiming, Yu Lanzhi, and Geng Huoran — men whose names were often ranked alongside one another, though opinions of their relative standing varied from person to person, with others still counted as second or third in line. These men, though perhaps prone to the usual scholarly rivalries and mutual disdain, occasionally competing with one another, nonetheless maintained genuine personal friendships among themselves. Once they grasped the true weight of this new tune-pattern, several of them gathered together to compare notes and exchange views — and knowing, as they now did, that Ning Liheng meant this piece as a gesture of reconciliation toward everyone, none of them said anything untoward. Someone even remarked: “This tune-pattern flows with such harmony and grace, grand and magnificent, yet lingering in its aftertaste — in the craft of composing lyrics, I confess I fall short of him.”

But amid this exchange of views, someone suddenly, quietly, came to realize something. It would be hard to say who first thought of it, but among those whose silent gazes betrayed that they, too, had grasped it, more than a few felt a chill creep across their scalps. Many years later, when these same men, now elderly, spoke again of what had happened that day, some would describe it using exactly that phrase — a chill creeping across the scalp…

To summarize that realization, it amounted, roughly, to this: if this man had invented this tune-pattern a month or two earlier, entirely on his own, how could this particular lyric contain those final lines expressing a wish for reconciliation with everyone present?

Nearly everyone in that hall harbored some desire for fame and fortune, some ambition to read the sages’ teachings and accomplish great things in the world. In all honesty, it was hard for them to believe that any young man alive could be entirely free of such longings — and yet Ning Yi’s refusal of Elder Qian’s proposal just now had forced them to confront exactly that possibility. Because even the most eccentric of men would never use the status of a matrilocal son-in-law to cultivate a public reputation — at most, one might adopt the guise of a recluse, and even that would be pushing credulity.

Ning Yi’s earlier lyrics had already spread throughout Hangzhou, and just now, these foremost literary talents had examined them closely, several times over, and had come to understand something of his particular style. For a man like this — if this lyric hadn’t been composed on the spot, but rather a month earlier, or even just days before — how could he possibly have written lines like “Someday I shall paint this fine scene and boast of it upon my return to the phoenix pool”? By now, anyone could see: this was not a man who, in some idle moment, would casually toss off lines so brimming with worldly ambition, purely for amusement.

Which meant he had composed it right there, on the spot…

While everyone else had been bringing out poems they’d painstakingly polished over time, this man had, in that very moment, produced a piece of such seamless perfection — an entirely new tune-pattern, achieved with such staggering mastery! Whether the tune-pattern itself had been devised earlier or invented on the spot, this particular lyric had unquestionably been composed then and there. He had nodded and agreed to write it almost without a second thought, without even the proverbial seven steps’ hesitation. And once that realization dawned, most of those present found themselves unwilling to even entertain the question of whether the tune-pattern had been devised earlier or on the spot.

This was no longer within the realm of ordinary genius. At this level, it was enough to send a chill down anyone’s spine.

Ning Yi sat there, head tilted slightly, scratching idly at his cheek where he’d taken a blow — a small patch of bruising now covered with a bandage.

No one voiced these thoughts and suspicions aloud, but everyone present was sharp enough to gradually sense the incongruity for themselves. After a good while, Song Zhiqian, seated some distance away, suddenly looked up with widened eyes, staring toward the couple at one side of the hall: “That’s not right — he… he… he wrote that lyric on the spot…”

Lou Shuwan turned to look at him. Song Zhiqian’s face was full of disbelief, his cheek twitching once, then again: “He… no wonder he never bothers writing poetry at all. He doesn’t skip these gatherings out of indifference — it’s simply because… because that’s…” Because no one else can possibly compete with him at all — Song Zhiqian never finished the thought aloud. Lou Shuwan looked at him with some confusion, then turned her gaze back to the front, losing interest.

No one present could have predicted just how far Ning Yi’s reputation as a talent would spread once word of this gathering got out.

Ning Yi and Su Tan’er sat there together, one hand clasped beneath the table, looking every bit the picture of a perfectly matched couple. From time to time people came over to greet them, and even a few timid courtesans approached to ask Ning Yi for guidance, their manner reverent beyond measure. Before long, music began to play, and someone sang the “Watching the Tide” lyric Ning Yi had just composed, before moving on to others.

“After today, doing business in Hangzhou is going to get a lot harder for us…”

Having gone through such a gathering and received such praise from all sides, Su Tan’er was, in truth, quite pleased with herself — her endearing little vanity, too, had been thoroughly satisfied. She was experiencing, for the first time in her life, the genuine thrill of being a “great talent’s wife,” her heart pounding with quiet excitement even as her face maintained a gentle, composed smile. And yet some sliver of clear-headedness remained, enough for her to venture a remark on a different matter entirely.

Ning Yi was smiling too, taking in everything around him: “You suffered for my sake today. I’m sorry for that.”

“I’m your wife,” Su Tan’er answered with a smile, her gaze drifting toward a woman playing the zither nearby. “Still, there’s no need to keep contending with the Lou family over anything more — their home ground offers us no advantage. Once we get back today, let me wrap up the business here in Hangzhou, and then let’s head back to Jiangning… After that, I’ll accompany my husband to the capital.”

“Mm. When the time comes, we’ll play the corrupt-official-and-merchant game together, a proper pair of money-grubbing spouses — I’ll help you earn back everything we’ve lost here.”

“Ha ha.” Su Tan’er laughed happily. “Actually, I had a thought earlier while I was speaking, but I figured you wouldn’t allow it, so I let it go.”

“Oh?”

“I wanted to tell everyone that I was carrying my husband’s child.”

“Truly?”

“Of course not — there’s nothing there yet, in any case. What I’d originally planned was this: once we got home today, I’d arrange for a little ‘accident,’ and a few days later, announce to everyone that the shock of today’s events had caused me to lose the child. That way, the Lou family would be saddled with the blame for having driven an unborn child to its death, and they wouldn’t dare move against us so easily.” As she said this, the smile faded from Su Tan’er’s face, replaced by something cold and sharp as frost — this was, evidently, the ruthless mode she adopted whenever she had to play the strategist.

Ning Yi gave her palm a gentle squeeze: “There was no need to go that far — it would only have left everyone unhappy.”

“Mm. Thinking it over afterward, I wasn’t happy with the idea either. Though at the time, it was really only because there happened to be so many physicians around.” Su Tan’er smiled sweetly.

And so the gathering carried on. Over by the seats of honor, Lu Tuizhi had gradually come to suspect that the lyric truly had been composed on the spot; exchanging a few knowing glances with those around him, he looked over toward Ning Yi more than once, then remarked to Qian Xiwen: “With talent and cunning like that, it’s no wonder Chancellor Qin wanted him brought to the capital to assist him — accomplished in both letters and arms besides.” Talent, of course, referred to the lyric; cunning, to the lines of reconciliation that followed.

Qian Xiwen simply smiled and gave a simple reply: “This old man doesn’t even know whether his talent for letters or his skill in martial arts is the greater. I’ve heard that not long ago in Jiangning, when a Liao assassin made an attempt on Chancellor Qin’s life, it was he who stepped in and saved him.”

“That was… a life-saving act of gratitude, then?”

“Mm, indeed — a debt of life owed.”

Qian Xiwen said this lightly and pressed no further. Lu Tuizhi glanced at him, and felt a fresh chill run down his spine. He had earlier been prepared to abandon Ning Yi entirely, knowing full well of his connection to the Chancellor — but he had assumed it a simple enough relationship, one whose weight could still be reasonably balanced against other considerations. Now that Qian Xiwen had made clear that Ning Yi had once saved Qin Siyuan’s very life, it was obvious the old man had likely decided from the very start to throw his full support behind him — and yet the elder had only offered this much as a quiet reminder, saying no more than that. Had he genuinely pursued a course aimed at convicting Ning Yi, he would have found himself, in the end, having made a truly grave enemy. Offending Qin Siyuan now, whatever accomplishments or achievements he might rack up later as prefect, would likely prove utterly ruinous… Prefect though he was, this old man before him was, in effect, delivering him a pointed warning.

The warm, harmonious mood carried on, with no one aware of the undercurrents stirring beneath the surface. Lou Jinlin had by now rejoined the gathering as well, laughing and chatting with several people. Poems continued to be composed here and there, though for the moment, no one dared to challenge Ning Yi again. On the horizon, the sun had begun to set, and lanterns had been hung along the great boat, waiting to be lit; before long, the dishes from Fuqing Tower began arriving, one platter after another.

Splendid rays of sunset light spread across the western sky, the clouds, the water, and the distant hills, all bathed in a magnificent, glowing orange. A cool evening breeze drifted in off the lake, sweeping into the open-sided hall on all sides. Some rose to their feet, gazing out at the distant mountains and waters in the warm breeze and the glow of sunset; others recited poetry, silk caps and white robes catching the light, cutting elegant figures. Near Ning Yi, one of Hangzhou’s own talented scholars came over to chat, and Ning Yi rose to converse with him as the banquet was about to formally begin; some of the servants had climbed to the top deck, preparing to light the lanterns shortly.

In that magnificent, cool, clean, and harmonious evening, Ning Yi turned his gaze toward the setting sun, and for a moment found himself entranced by the scene, growing faintly intoxicated in the breeze.

A flock of wild geese flew across the sky through the glow of sunset.

The man beside him said something; Ning Yi’s brow furrowed slightly. Though his attention wasn’t fully on the conversation, his responses came easily enough, and he was likely already anticipating the man’s next remark. But then he felt something — something hard to describe. Perhaps it was only an illusion, but that faint, prickling sensation scratched at his heart like ants, like a swarming colony of them, and then like mosquitoes — and that strange sensation… began rising up from the soles of his feet!

Beneath the setting sun, there came a moment of stillness so profound it felt almost like witnessing the birth of the world itself — and then…

The ground beneath his feet suddenly lurched!

Countless table legs gave a sharp “creak” and shuddered. Ning Yi grabbed the scholar beside him, who nearly toppled to the floor — in that instant, he had no idea what was happening, and yet in the very next breath, the great boat itself began to rock violently.

A tremendous boom echoed out.

The great boat on the lake first pitched sharply to one side, then crashed violently into another pleasure boat nearby, the sound of splintering timber ringing out. A boatman, who had apparently been lighting a lantern up above, saw it suddenly burst into a ball of flame, and along with a cry of “Ahh—!” the man went tumbling off the side of the boat into the lake below.

The violent shaking continued, tables and chairs rattling wildly. Su Tan’er grabbed hold of Ning Yi; he released the scholar he’d been holding and seized Xiao Chan and Su Tan’er by the wrist instead. Bowls and chopsticks clattered to the floor one after another. In the sunset-lit hall, many people were caught off guard and fell, the whole scene descending into panic — no one had any idea what was happening as the boat continued to shake. Someone shouted, “What’s happening, what’s happening!” and all manner of strange sounds rose up amid it — a woman’s sudden scream, a pipa string snapping, another woman crying out as her finger was cut. A deep, rolling rumble came surging in from every direction, near and far, like an avalanche.

“What’s going on—”

“Hold steady—”

Someone outside shouted in a panic; someone else called out something — at first it sounded faintly like “little brother,” but a moment later it became clear the word was actually “earth dragon…”

And then, like the blast of a warning horn, a single terrified voice tore through the glow of the sunset.

“THE EARTH DRAGON—”

“THE EARTH DRAGON IS TURNING OVER—”

“IT’S TURNING OVER—”

The boat was still rocking, and as Ning Yi looked out toward the world beyond, his field of vision seemed to swim — not because the boat itself was shaking too fast, but because of the visual disparity between the boat’s own slower rocking and the far more violent shaking happening in the world outside. A deep, rolling rumble thundered on and on and on. In that instant, the surface of the lake seemed to boil, and the distant hills, the city, and Xiaoyingzhou nearby were all engulfed in violent, shuddering tremors.

The setting sun blazed blood-red, and on this evening of such magnificent sunset light, an immense force welling up from the depths of the earth took on physical form — a nightmare made real, carrying with it violent shockwaves that surged outward to devour everything within sight, and further still, toward the vast, unfathomable expanse of the entire continent beyond…