The sky is like ink, and the remaining clouds are like wisps. One thought reaches the sky, and the gods and demons are not afraid.
Bloodstains crisscrossed Wukong's face, and each scar told of the brutality of the battle. He held the golden cudgel in his hand, the artifact that once could stir up the world, but now it was also stained with blood, and he was half-supporting and half-kneeling to support his shaky body. He raised his head slightly and looked at the gods and Buddhas in the sky. His eyes were burning with unyielding flames. He chuckled coldly. Although his voice was low, it reverberated between heaven and earth like a bell: "Me? What crime do I have?"
Nezha dragged his mutilated body. The shirt was in pieces, fluttering in the wind, revealing scarred skin. Blood flowed from his mouth and dyed his clothes red. He caressed his chest, where the pain spread like a knife, but his eyes were extremely firm, revealing a decisive fierceness. Even though he was at the end of his strength, he still roared with all his strength: "This matter has nothing to do with you, I just want to kill him! Why did you stop me so many times!"
