Gray mist rises, and ghouls descend.
Overnight, the world falls, and the apocalypse arrives.
Zhou Xingdou: “They laugh at me for being too mad; I laugh at them for not seeing through it. The tombs of the heroes of Wuling lie unseen, while flowers and wine are gone, and they’ve taken up hoes to till the fields.”
Cao Da: “Brother Xing, that was awesome! No wonder they call you the Immortal Poet of a Generation. Looks like the task of saving humanity can only be entrusted to you.”
Zhou Xingdou: “Tch, of course. Can a few measly ghouls stop my pig-killing knife?”
Cao Da: “May I ask who you are, sir...?”
Zhou Xingdou: “Me...? I’m nobody special. I’m a butcher.”
