The man wearing the Vermilion Bird mask stepped onto the snowy plains, where the illusory Golden Tree Root roared as it grew and spread. In the snow emerged glistening, deep lotus flowers, with golden stems and pitch-black vines woven into a supreme Divine Seat. In the wind and snow, chaotic mist spread, and the world was silent as if the Universe had just formed.
He sat on the Divine Seat, the wind blowing his moon-white robe, making it flap loudly.
Snowflakes fell into his palm, and he gently crushed them.
The supreme God admired the vast snowy landscape, showing a long-lost expression.
Like a traveler returning to a familiar place after a long absence.
How sacred and noble this scene was, the ancient God suspended upon the Divine Seat in the sky, the snowy plains shaking violently for thousands of miles, burning with vermillion flames, as if the gates to the Divine Country had opened.
There was no overwhelming might.
No earth-shattering screams and roars.
