In that mysterious and bizarre space, pitch-dark and thick enough to swallow everything, Zhang Yue lay unconscious, like a broken puppet, quietly resting in a hollow on a small hill. In this vast and boundless space, this little hill was like a drop in the ocean, lonely and insignificant. A faint mist drifted all around, carrying an aura of decay and antiquity, as if time had stood still here, or as if this were a forgotten corner of the world. Every wisp of mist was like the dust of history; a gentle touch was enough to reveal the vicissitudes and mystery accumulated by the passage of time.
Zhang Yue looked utterly wretched. His once reasonably handsome face was now covered in blood and dust, and his hair was as messy as a bird's nest, soaked and plastered in strands across his face, making it impossible to tell sweat from blood. The blood trails wound down from his forehead, across his cheeks, drying into dark brown scabs like cruel medals left behind by war. His clothes were torn to shreds, the tattered strips fluttering weakly in the breeze as if crying out to the wind about the suffering their master had endured. Scrapes and bruises covered his body, and shocking wounds marked his skin; his blood had long since soaked his clothes red before gradually drying and mixing with the dust, making him look exceptionally fierce. Some of his wounds were still throbbing with a dull ache, as if reminding him of the battle of life and death he had just survived.
In his unconsciousn…
Chapter 240