Fang Han's steps faltered the moment he saw the boundary stone.
Behind him, Yun Muyao, Luo Yuntian, and the others also stopped, their gazes falling on the two words inscribed there.
No one spoke, but the tense atmosphere that had persisted for an entire day and night quietly slackened.
Qingyang County.
They were finally back.
Fang Han slowly exhaled, feeling a wave of exhaustion from deep within his bones wash over him.
The wounds on his body—torn by puppet claws and grazed by Xue Yuanlang's Palm Wind—ached dully beneath their scabs.
After traveling for more than a day with only two short breaks, his legs now felt as heavy as lead.
The other eight were in the same state.
The hem of Yun Muyao's dress was caked with mud. A light veil masked her face, revealing only a pair of clear, cold eyes where the exhaustion was almost palpable.
Luo Yuntian's face was pale, his aura faint and unsteady.
