Mo Xing was dreaming. He dreamt that he was falling from a very high place. Mo Xing was immersed in the depths of a disconcerting dream. The vast expanse around him stretched into an infinite void, and he descended, weightless and untethered, through the ominous darkness. The frigid wind whipped around him, and a sense of impending doom hung heavy in the air.
Amidst the unsettling descent, a haunting cry for help reverberated through the abyss. The voice was distant, echoing with an ethereal quality that made it both chilling and urgent. It was a plea laden with desperation, a soulful cry that cut through the dream's obscurity.
Mo Xing strained to decipher the words, his senses grappling with the muffled cadence of the voice. The cry for help resonated with an intensity that transcended the dream's confines, seeping into his very core. Each plea seemed to vibrate through the void, a spectral symphony of distress.
