Above the ancient city stood Cang Mountain.
Cang Mountain was often enveloped by white clouds, which also frequently cast shadows over the ancient city.
But that was a blessing. The sunlight here was scorching, so it was fortunate to be under the clouds—a little more breeze would have made it even more comfortable.
They ate hand-grabbed rice outside the South Gate.
Earlier, Zhou Li and Brother Nan had been skeptical, suspecting the five-star ratings might be inflated. After all, it was a tourist area. For visitors, food that tasted even slightly better, combined with excellent service, could easily garner high scores. It was just like the crossing-the-bridge noodles they had last year, which couldn't compare to those they'd eaten in Chunming or on their cycling trip.
At that time, Brother Nan had said it was surely because those tourists had never had truly tasty crossing-the-bridge noodles that they rated such mediocre ones so highly.
It turned out they were wrong.
