Time hurried by, the years fleeting like a shuttle.
World of Death, a desolate plain devoid of life, Xiao Chen sat alone, already seventeen years had passed. He was like a statue, motionless.
Occasionally, a cold wind swept across the land, emitting bursts of eerie howls.
The barren land turned reddish-brown, cold and hard; apart from the weathered bones, there was nothing else.
Over the years, Xiao Chen was covered in dust, completely buried by it, blending into this lonely world as if he had forever lost his vitality.
Helplessly having retreated from Jiuzhou to the World of Death, he had sat like a dry tree for seventeen years.
His once jet-black long hair had now turned gray, having lost all its luster. When the cold wind blew, the gray hair fell off, turning into dust.
Day by day, year by year, when the thirty-first year arrived, Xiao Chen still sat motionless like a statue, making one wonder if he had petrified there.
