The twilight rose, the fiery clouds sinking from the direction of Istania, the sky of gold and blue gradually turned dark gray, and the night seemed like a sleeping giant, slowly enveloping this winter city.
Fang Hong leaned against the terrace, watching the last trace of golden cloud edges curl behind the dome of the Holy Sanctuary, contemplating the events of the day, lost in thought for a moment, as a few birds flew across the distance, and the hazy golden-red faded into Zhan Lan.
As night fell, the celebration officially entered the preparation stage, and people surged out from nowhere; the streets were full of torches, pedestrians, points of light, resembling a light dragon winding to the horizon.
Fang Hong gazed at the windows that lit up one by one, momentarily seeing the stars on the ground, behind the windows was a bright golden hue, people hung leafed acorns on the windows, symbolizing a bountiful harvest.
