Chapter 110: The Blood-Stained Path

"Damn it." Luo Hanyai struggled to take a few more steps, the bloody lacerations on his body increasing in number. For some reason, every skeletal hand that drew a drop of blood from him would retreat into its grave and vanish. But what good did that do? Luo Hanyai looked at the dense thicket of skeletal hands ahead and spat, his defiance overshadowed by a growing sense of pallor and helplessness.

Everywhere his eyes fell were burial mounds; his entire field of vision was a sea of white. The dim, yellowish light flickered a few times before turning a deathly pale hue. The pitch-black sky and the pitch-black earth had merged into a monochrome ghost realm.

The crow continued to stare at Luo Hanyai, its dull claws opening and closing, seemingly tugging at his soul—pulling at Luo Hanyai’s very essence.

"Damn it. I discovered the lamp first, yet I haven't even entered the Tide of Death, and I'm already being drained of my vitality by these rotten bones that have been decaying for who knows how many years. How ironic." Luo Hanyai lightly touched the bloody marks on his body. They stung with a searing, fiery sensation, yet no blood flowed; the flesh and blood he touched felt as if it had already died. Though it retained its original color, it had long since lost the vibrant glow of the living.

"Hey! You foul crow! Haven't you had your fill yet?" Veins bulged on Luo Hanyai’s forehead, his face twisting into a grimace. Pain was suppressed by a surge of intense rage. He grabbed a handful of dirt and stone from the ground and hurled it at the crow in a fit of frustration.

The crow did not move; it simply sat quietly on the branch, watching the debris fall around it, its dull eyes filled with nothing but indifference.

"Caw!" The crow suddenly opened its beak and shrieked. Luo Hanyai felt as if his head had been struck by a heavy hammer; hot, wet liquid began to flow from every orifice. He wiped the liquid from his face, only to smear it into a grotesque mess. He tapped his still-dizzy head and laughed like a man possessed.

"Heh, I can't even touch a filthy bird? The Tide of Death is truly fascinating." Luo Hanyai turned to look behind him, still faced with layers upon layers of burial mounds. A strange, eerie smile crept across his face, as if he had spotted something interesting.

...

"Hey, it seems he’s figured it out." A mocking voice drifted from behind the man in white.

"And what if he has?" The man in white raised his eyebrows and smiled silently.

"Aren't you afraid he’ll break through the trap?"

"Why should I be? There are no outsiders here."

"You, as always, are remarkably sensible."

"The feeling is mutual."

...

"Come on then, it’s just a Tide of Death, isn't it?" Luo Hanyai took another step forward, and once again, several skeletal hands drained a portion of his blood. The scent of death on his body grew increasingly heavy...

One step, two steps, five steps, ten steps... The bloody marks on Luo Hanyai’s body had almost merged into one, revealing the dense network of capillaries beneath his skin. His eerie, horrific appearance was as if he were being skinned alive. As the pain in his body intensified, the tugging at his soul grew strangely softer. The crow even paused, hesitant and bewildered, looking at Luo Hanyai as if it could not comprehend the changes occurring within him.

"You're just a feathered beast after all, how can you fight me?" Luo Hanyai bared his teeth, hissing as he drew in cold air. His face, smeared with fresh blood, managed to contrive an unnervingly strange smile. Though he was in a wretched state, his entire body burning like charcoal, and trembling violently with every step he took, Luo Hanyai continued to pant heavily, dragging his mangled body toward the giant grave.

...

"It seems your calculations were off." The voice gasped heavily, clearly stunned by Luo Hanyai’s insane actions.

"Not a miscalculation, more like within expectations—though I didn't expect it to happen so quickly." The man in white’s gaze flickered. He pursed his lips and sighed with emotion: "The Tide of Death, as the name implies, is a surging wave of death. Naturally, only those piles of rotted, long-dead bones, or a half-dead wretch like him, can merge into it. Living a life worse than death is often more terrifying than death itself. How much time has passed? This guy is already stronger than those rotting bones who think they’re so powerful. Unbelievable, truly unbelievable."

"Heh, you know exactly what kind of trash those bones are, don't you?" A middle-aged man with a weathered face but a lewd smile stepped out from behind the man in white.

"Heather, you’re acting strange. You never speak like this." The man in white frowned slightly, seemingly surprised by the middle-aged man’s change.

"It is true. Perhaps I’ve finally let go; the things of the past should have dissipated long ago." Heather appeared quite carefree, unbothered by the past.

"If only that guy were as carefree as you." The man in white sighed, leaving the sentence unfinished.

"He has his own thoughts; let him do as he pleases. What does any of this have to do with us?"

"Is that your attitude?"

"If he can't even handle this, is he still himself?"

"As expected of our former boss, you really see through things clearly."

"Haha, of course!"

"Yo, impressive, brother."

...

While the atmosphere here was relaxed and cheerful—as if they were watching a grand play, snacking and chatting, and even offering critiques on the finer performances—Luo Hanyai was plunged into a new crisis.

Luo Hanyai lay on the ground, no longer resembling a human, but rather an evil spirit crawled from the pits of hell. He moved forward inch by agonizing inch toward his hope of returning to the world of the living. With every inch of movement, every fiber of his flesh protested, pulling and tearing. The dense lacerations began to flare up; after the bone-deep stinging came an unbearable, maddening itch that begged to be scratched, and every scratch tore away another layer of raw flesh...

The lamp was so close, barely ten meters away. He opened his blurred eyes and saw it reflected in countless images. At the same time, he caught a glimpse of a strange white light. Yet, his body seemed unable to cover those last ten meters. He was very clear-headed, or perhaps, remarkably calm. He knew that crawling even five meters would be an impossible task. But so what? He had to survive; he would never succumb so easily.

The song of the dead began to rise again, bewitching the soul lying on the edge of the abyss, pulling him to fall into the depths.

"Death is the simplest and most comfortable refuge,
We do not wish,
We do not wish to be its puppet."

...

"Heh, what do you rotting bones know? A bunch of cowards." Luo Hanyai wanted to mock these foolish spirits loudly, but his throat felt as if it were blocked by something warm and fresh, preventing him from uttering a single word. Despite being on the verge of death, he refused to die easily. Perhaps this thought was pure madness, but even in the iron grip of the Grim Reaper, he would still resist. He would not die; he would not surrender to this simplest, most comfortable refuge.

Luo Hanyai struggled forward. His blood seemed to reawaken, dotting the pitch-black sand and stone with vibrant, living color.

Moving, moving along this short yet endless road—this path stained with blood.