"Hm?"
Yi Lin looked down.
To his surprise, he had stepped on a wrinkled hand.
Lying on the ground was a middle-aged man, covered in blood.
His clothes were tattered, his head wrapped in burlap, and a chunk of flesh had been brutally gnawed from his right shoulder and arm, presenting a grisly, mangled sight.
Yi Lin hesitated for a second.
Weighing the pros and cons, he originally didn't intend to intervene.
After all, he wasn't a saint; in story mode, the biggest taboo was to act without thinking.
Every action had to be contemplated thoroughly.
Impulsiveness, saintly behavior, anger, and mindlessly licking up to story characters—these thoughtless actions would only make matters worse.
This, Yi Lin was well aware of.
And he had a deep understanding.
Just as he was about to leave, the middle-aged man desperately grasped onto Yi Lin's ankle.
Where this strength came from, Yi Lin didn't know, but the wrinkled hand clenched as tight as a metal hoop.
It was at that moment...
