With fear spurring him on, it didn't take long for Yang Qing to reach Dean Zhu Lao's courtyard, or rather, the courtyard of the Faculty of Cultivation Arts. It was a homely two-storey wooden structure made of blue ivy wood, surrounded by dragon grass and a few other herbs here and there, mostly of top-tier monarch grade quality, which left anyone who walked into the compound feeling refreshed. They didn't smell bad either, carrying a minty, rain-like scent with a touch of that smell of spring to go along with it.
There wasn't anyone at the entrance, but Yang Qing walked through the gates as though he was entering his own courtyard, which, in a certain sense, he kind of was.
