Zhao Rong did not like dusk.
The dusk of this world.
At this moment, he raised his eyes to gaze into the distance.
On the distant horizon, a range of black mountains loomed, the blood-red remnants of the sun had already completely fallen behind them, leaving no trace.
The last gleam of twilight in the sky was gradually dimming, like an elderly man at dusk, coming to life with a sense of deathly stillness.
Night was shrouding the earth, and how could the human lights on the ground resist the suffocating darkness that pressed down like fate?
Zhao Rong detested this feeling, which had nearly always caused a sense of disconnection in him since he recovered his memories from a past life, as if he did not belong to this world.
He felt out of place.
