But she immediately followed, it was a high-stakes gamble.
The place did not give her a good feeling.
The heavy door under the dim light had a very peculiar feel, its originally lacquered red had turned into dark red, giving a viscous, blood-like texture.
The red paint on the edge of the door frame was peeling in many places, revealing the dark wood grain underneath, the glass covered in thick dust.
The closer you looked, the harder it was to see inside, as if separated by a fog.
The Cultural Palace's door had a large iron lock hanging on it, its surface reflecting a cold metallic sheen, but upon closer inspection, one would find the lock was just for show, not locked at all.
Yang Xiao drew close to a relatively clean piece of glass, and from his angle, he could see the porter, an old man sitting at the wooden desk inside.
The old man had a shiny bald head, reflecting light from his forehead, holding a newspaper in his hands, reading it.
