"The southern gate of Human City has fallen."

On this morning, sunlight did not reach the ancestral hall of Da Wang Village.

A peregrine falcon, formed by a gentle breeze, landed on the offering table, speaking with the voice of Feng Zhi.

Li Mo, with his hair full of silver, had just offered a stick of incense to his ancestors. He gazed silently at the flickering, dim candle flame swaying in the wind.