In this dim and oppressive atmosphere, Gong Simeng's face was solemn as frost, holding her young son firmly in her arms.
The child, though naive, sensed the tension in his mother's embrace and curled his little body slightly.
Gong Simeng also carried her daughter on her back, her small face pressed against her mother's back, her eyes filled with curiosity and unease.
In her hand, Gong Simeng tightly gripped the Python Whip, which twisted slightly in the gale, like a real python, ready to strike, emitting a cold and eerie aura, as if it could freeze the endless yellow sand.
Bai Zhi also carried her son, the little one clinging tightly to his mother's clothes on her back.
Bai Zhi held a three-foot silver rod with thorns, shimmering with a cold light in the dim light.
Standing shoulder to shoulder with Gong Simeng, the two exchanged a glance, their eyes meeting filled with determination and resolve.
