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The mist is dense.
So dense that even with Zhang Fusheng's vision now, he could only vaguely make out scenes a hundred meters away.
As for an ordinary person without any cultivation, they could still see several meters ahead.
"This is the trade road beneath our feet."
Third Lian, carrying a somewhat decayed coffin, rode on horseback and pointed to the yellow clay beneath him:
"This is 'Heavy Soil,' a palm-sized portion of Heavy Soil weighs tens of thousands of pounds. The wind on the plateau is terrifyingly strong, yet only roads paved with this Heavy Soil won't get blown away by the wind."
The old man riding backwards on the Red Bull looked down,
The yellow clay spread out into a long road, beyond which the land was utterly barren and decayed.
"Without the yellow Heavy Mud to guide us, no one can distinguish the direction."
The old man on the bull's back seemed thoughtful.
