Jiang Xin accepted the spatial pouch with a composed expression, his movements unhurried yet precise. The moment his fingers brushed against the pouch's surface, a thin strand of spirit sense slipped inside, sweeping across its contents like a tide washing over the shore.
The first thing that caught his attention was the sheer number of severed heads—each one belonging to a Shihuo Demon Tribe member, their twisted expressions frozen in a grotesque mix of pain and terror. Their fiery-red flesh, a distinct trait of their tribe, had dulled significantly, a clear indication of their lingering resentment even in death.
