The Cultivators coming and going within the Marketplace, while not exactly filthy, still gave off the unavoidable impression of desert travelers—rough, valiant, and travel-worn.
Their gazes were piercing as they crossed.
At this moment, inside a Spirit Wine Tower in the center of the district, a Green Robe Cultivator sat by the window.
His face was a weathered bronze, coarse from years of wind and sand, with several deep wrinkles etched at the corners of his eyes.
Yet, his hands were unusually steady, his knuckles distinct, as he unhurriedly lifted the only flask of liquor on the table to pour himself a full cup.
The liquor was golden, sparkling under the sun as if a handful of yellow sand had been poured into the cup.
His appearance and mannerisms immediately marked him as a Cultivator who had toiled and struggled in the desert for many years.
THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!...
