Chen Mo followed Zhong Lihe through the front hall, entering a dark door and walking down a spiral staircase. At the end of the staircase was a tightly closed iron door, covered with dark red rust.
Zhong Lihe waved his hand, and with a creaky noise, the iron door slowly opened.
"Come in."
Zhong Lihe stepped inside.
Chen Mo had just walked in when he was shocked by the sight before him.
Before him was a vast underground plaza, with several red lamps hanging from the dome, resembling blood moons. In the dim red light, the ground was densely packed with swords and blades, resembling a wavering gray tide.
The temperature here was extremely low, and each breath emitted a frosty chill. The air was filled with the metallic rust scent unique to cold iron.
Among the tens of thousands of blades, a greenish-black stone platform stood abruptly, with thirty-three stone steps marked by countless sword and blade cuts.
