The only tune in the pitch-black mine was the ringing of rocks being picked and smashed. It lingered next to everyone's ears, like the sounds of moving iron chains held in the ghost soldiers' hands while they prowled across hell. The cultivators, in whom Wu Qi had buried a restrictive spell, were working themselves to the bone, pulling carts after carts of ores from the pits and letting those Yakshas send those to the storehouse in Miao Ying Palace.
A dim candlelight was lit in the dark chamber, casting a pale-green light onto Wu Qi's twisted face. The look on his face was frightening, like that of a ten thousand years old vampire laying in a casket. He was bare to the waist. His broken arm was wriggling slowly; countless granulation tissues were gradually growing out from where it was broken, forming into the outlines of new flesh, tendons, blood vessels, and skins.
