There are old tribal names that have disappeared, new tribal names that have been born.
Beneath that cliff, countless convicts have been buried.
And that cliff is called Ghost Cloud Cliff!!
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At the moment, Ghost Cloud Cliff is shrouded in dark clouds, pressing down so low they seem within reach if one were to stand atop the mountain.
The ink-black clouds carry a sticky chill, which makes one shiver upon contact.
Atop the towering cliff stands a platform, two hundred yards long and wide! There seems to be no path leading up from below, as if this piece of the mountain has been sliced away.
Its flatness is akin to being cut by an axe.
The edges are so sharp they could cut a finger.
The wind howls like countless mournful voices screaming.
The lingering souls of prisoners from thousands of years past continue to scream their pains.
The haunting howl of the wind pierces the very soul; if an ordinary person were here, their mind would surely shatter upon hearing it.
