The moon was obscured, and the stars were sparse; a chill, autumn wind whistled through the streets, immersing the town in a cold embrace.
Withered chrysanthemums bloomed beside the sparse fences, and leaves from declining paulownia trees fell into the cold wells.
"Drip..."
"Drip..."
The wind twisted the blood dripping downward, lingering in the air for a moment, yet it inevitably fell to the ground.
No matter how tightly one clutched their neck, even to the point of suffocation, it was impossible to stop the ebbing of life.
Members of the Demon Cult in black garb, their eyes filled with reluctance, kept falling one after another in the long street.
Zhao Rong ignored them and quickly ducked into the houses by the street.
Once he was certain there were no sounds around, he sat down to meditate and regulate his breathing, maintaining an optimal state.
After the time it takes to drink a cup of tea, he was fully alert.
