Meanwhile, the evening breeze in the small town gently blows the curtains at the street corners, while smoke billows softly from the chimneys of small houses, and children are already asleep in their dreams.
But the undercurrents of the future have yet to subside—the Watchers' new journey has only just begun!
Towering green ancient trees conceal the temple within them, mottled stone pillars inscribed with scars of time and intricate, exquisite runes.
Morning light penetrates the dense leaves, scattering broken points of light, like countless dancing Fires of Life reflecting faded glory.
However, this land, hailed as the Holy Land of the origins of all, is stirred by increasing friction between faith and technology.
The traditional elders, clad in green moss garments, their faces old yet imposing, uphold traditional rituals and the natural rhythm, their brows furrowed, their dissatisfaction with the surge of the technological faction frozen into sharp frost in their eyes.
