Time slowly trickled by.
It was the fifth day of Wu Dao's secluded cultivation.
The Southern Border, which had experienced a brief resurgence, was like a dying patient who, after a few days of renewed vigor, was once again bedridden.
The snow disaster had returned.
And it was far more violent, terrifying, and horrifying than before its brief respite.
Black skies!
Black snow!
Lightning flashed and thunder roared as goose-feather snowflakes fell!
In less than a day, all Thirteen Prefectures of the Southern Border were afflicted.
Black snow blanketed the mountains and fields, stretching to the ends of the earth, a stark contrast against the inky-dark, lightning-filled heavens.
The world looked like a faded old photograph.
Everywhere one looked was ruin and deathly silence.
Rather than the world of the living, it more closely resembled a sunless Abyss of Hell, without a single glimmer of hope.
