The eleventh mural depicted nothing but a solitary mountain, while the twelfth mural was a vast expanse of whiteness—completely blank.
These two murals deepened Fang Lin's confusion. By logic, the last two murals should hold the utmost importance, yet they were so peculiar that Fang Lin couldn't make sense of them.
But just as Fang Lin finished examining the twelve murals, his vision suddenly turned black. It felt as though he had fallen into an endless abyss, entirely drained of strength, his consciousness growing increasingly blurred—on the verge of death.
No one knows how much time passed before Fang Lin opened his eyes again, only to find himself in a strange and unfamiliar place.
"What... what kind of place is this?" Fang Lin stood atop a mist-shrouded mountain peak, utterly bewildered.
Before he could grasp what was happening, he heard melodious music drifting from not far away—clear and delightful, yet imbued with an indescribable sense of loneliness.
