The cabin wasn't very spacious. Its walls were pieced together from rough-hewn logs, bearing the marks of time in a series of grooves, some deep and some shallow.
Simple wooden furniture occupied a corner: a slightly crude wooden table, a few chairs that had seen many years, and some animal hides and fishing nets scattered haphazardly on the floor.
On one side of the room was a simple hearth built from stacked stones. The remnants of unburnt wood and plant ash suggested this was where they cooked their meals.
Near the wall was a low wooden bed. Nash's father lay on it, covered by a fur blanket, his eyes shut tight. Only his breathing, rising and falling like a faint wave, confirmed that he was still alive.
Suddenly, the quiet atmosphere was shattered.
A figure shot up from the head of the bed. The movement was so abrupt, so without warning, it was like a specter lunging from the shadows.
Caught completely off guard, Feng Mountain jumped, his body instinctively recoiling.
Pfft!
