Chapter One Hundred and Ten: The Bloodstained 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 bone hand that drew a trace of blood from him would retract back into the mound and vanish. But what did that matter? Luo Hanyai looked at the dense thicket of bone hands ahead and spat, his defiance overshadowed by a pallor of helpless despair.

Everywhere his eyes turned were burial mounds; his entire field of vision was a sea of white. The dim, yellowish lamp flickered and faded into a sickly pale glow, while the pitch-black sky and earth merged into a monochrome realm of ghosts.

The crow continued to stare at Luo Hanyai, its dark, ash-colored claws opening and closing as if tugging at a soul—tugging at Luo Hanyai’s soul.

"Damn it. To find that lamp first, yet not even have entered the Tide of Death, only to have my vitality picked away bit by bit by these rotting bones that have been dead for who knows how long—it’s truly ironic." Luo Hanyai lightly touched the wounds on his body. They stung with a searing, fiery heat, though no blood flowed; the flesh and blood he touched felt as if it were already dead. Although it retained its original color, it had long since lost the vibrant luster of the living.

"Hey! You foul bird! Have you not had your fill yet?" Veins bulged on Luo Hanyai's forehead, his face twisted in a hideous grimace. His agony 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 venting.

The crow did not move. It sat quietly on the branch, watching the debris fall around it, its dull eyes filled only with 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 pour from every orifice. He wiped the fluid from his face, leaving it smeared and stained. He patted his still-dizzy head and laughed like a man possessed.

"Heh heh, I can't even touch a stinking bird? The Tide of Death is truly interesting." Luo Hanyai turned his head to look behind him, where the burial mounds remained piled high. A strange smile crept across his face, as if he had seen something amusing.

...

"Heh, it seems he understands." A mocking voice came from behind the figure in white.

"And what if he does?" The figure in white arched an eyebrow and smiled silently.

"Aren't you afraid he might break through and escape?"

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

"You, as always, are remarkably sensible."

"And you the same."

...

"Come on then, what is a mere Tide of Death?" Luo Hanyai took another step forward, losing more blood to several more bone hands as the aura of death on his body grew increasingly thick...

One step, two steps, five steps, ten steps... The bloody lacerations on Luo Hanyai's body had nearly merged into one, revealing the dense network of capillaries beneath his skin. The grotesque, horrifying sight made him look as though he were being skinned alive. While the physical pain intensified, the tugging at his soul grew strangely softer. The crow even paused in hesitation, watching Luo Hanyai with confusion, seemingly unable to comprehend the changes manifesting in him.

"You’re just a feathered beast, after all. How can you hope to fight me?" Luo Hanyai bared his teeth, hissing through the pain. His blood-smeared face forced a twisted, eerie grin. Though he was in a state of wretched misery, his entire body burning like charcoal, and though he trembled violently with every step, Luo Hanyai continued to gasp for breath, dragging his mangled body toward the giant mound.

...

"It seems you miscalculated." The voice let out a heavy sigh, clearly taken aback by Luo Hanyai's insane actions.

"I wouldn't call it a miscalculation; it was within expectations, though I didn't expect it to happen so quickly." The figure in white’s gaze flickered. He curled his lip, sighing with emotion: "The Tide of Death, as the name suggests, is a frantic surge of mortality. Naturally, only those rotting, long-dead bones or someone half-dead like him can merge into it. A life worse than death is often more terrifying than death itself. How much time has passed? This guy is already far stronger than those rotting bones who think so highly of themselves. Unthinkable, truly unthinkable."

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

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

"It’s true. Perhaps I’ve finally let go; the things of the past ought to dissipate." Heather appeared remarkably detached, showing little concern for the past.

"If only that guy were as detached as you." The figure in white sighed, words hanging on his lips.

"He has his own thoughts, so 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 much, would he still be himself?"

"You live up to your name as the former boss; your perspective is truly thorough."

"Haha, of course it is!"

"Yo, impressive, brother."

...

The atmosphere here was relaxed and cheerful, much like people watching a grand play, snacking and chatting, offering critiques at the most exciting parts. Meanwhile, Luo Hanyai had fallen into a new crisis.

Luo Hanyai lay on the ground, no longer resembling a human, but rather a demon crawled up from hell. He dragged himself forward inch by agonizing inch toward his hope for the world of the living. With every inch he moved, every strand of flesh rebelled, pulling and tearing. The dense mass of lacerations began to sting, and after the bone-deep pain came an unbearable, maddening itch that begged to be scratched—and every scratch peeled away more raw flesh...

The lamp was so close, barely ten meters away. He opened his blurred eyes and saw it through a thousand reflections. At the same time, he caught a glimpse of a strange, white light. Yet, his body seemed unable to traverse even these last ten meters. He knew, or rather, he was profoundly calm in the knowledge, that crawling even five meters would be an impossible feat. But what of it? He still had to live; he would never die so easily.

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

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

...

"Heh, what could you rotting bones possibly understand? A bunch of cowards." Luo Hanyai wanted to mock the foolish spirits loudly, but his throat felt as if it were choked with something warm and fresh, preventing a single word from escaping. Despite being on the brink of death, he refused to die easily. Perhaps this thought was pure madness, but even in the iron grip of the Reaper, he would still resist. He would not die; he would not submit to this simplest, most comfortable destination.

Luo Hanyai struggled forward, his blood seemingly reawakening, dotting the pitch-black sand and stone with vibrant, living color.

He moved, crawling along this short yet endless road—this path of blood.