In the northern borderlands of Yunzhou, shrouded in thick, rolling clouds and mist, stood a colossal mountain, half black and half white.
The south side was completely pitch-black, barren and devoid of even a single blade of grass, while the north side was covered in perennial snow, frozen frost thick as ice.
From a distance, the mountain looked like a giant steamed bun, half of it scorched and charred black, standing tall atop the dragon’s spine that stretched for thousands of miles.
Named after its shape, the locals at the border of Yunzhou had long called this mountain the Scorched Bun Ridge.
This Scorched Bun Ridge seemed strange, but in truth, it was even stranger than it looked.
No matter how much effort one expended, once you were a hundred miles or so from its foot, it was impossible to get any closer.
No matter how profound your cultivation, you could never ascend its peak or cross over its summit.
It was like...
A painting hung on the wall — forever clear to look at, yet no matter what, utterly impossible to climb!
Yet at this moment, standing squarely at the center of the mountaintop, where the black face met the white back, were three respectful figures.