West Mountain, where peaks rise and fall, is lush and green.
Last night, a violent storm hit East Capital, only ceasing and clearing up by dawn.
The weather hadn't cooled for long when the scorching sun of midsummer began baking the damp mountain forests.
The accumulated moisture from the vegetation was evaporating, turning into large clusters of clouds and fog, swirling and dispersing among the peaks.
The paving stones of the mountain path were still wet.
Between the branches and leaves of towering ancient trees, water droplets occasionally dripped down.
Fang Cheng and Cheng Jiashu walked side by side, leisurely ascending the steps.
Visitors passed by in twos and threes, most of them leaning on hiking sticks, stopping and starting, panting heavily.
By comparison, the two seemed to walk casually, yet their pace was exceptionally brisk.
Even traversing steep hillside sections felt like walking on flat ground, with not a trace of change in their breathing rhythm.
