The setting sun hung like blood, dyeing the forest in an eerie, dark crimson.
Ye Shuli and Jiang Ye advanced with extreme caution, every step feeling as though they were treading on the edge of a blade.
The surrounding air seemed to have frozen, chillingly silent and suffocating. Only the rustling of the wind through the leaves—like ghost whispers—constantly plucked at their taut nerves.
Chapter 297