[Pure plot, no excessive introduction, explanation, psychological description, etc. If there is any inappropriateness, please forgive me]
When Long Yan was kneeling in the sea of blood in the corpse mountain and licking the blood on the sword's edge, he tasted the first ray of spiritual energy on his tongue. On the neck that used to be locked with dark iron shackles, there is still the cinnabar splashed on the night when the master's family was exterminated - it was the last remaining soul of the three thousand slaves before they were turned into ashes when the ascetics burned the city with a snap of their fingers.
As the only living sacrifice to crawl out of purgatory, he clutched half of a coarse porcelain bowl stained with blood and dug out a half-volume of the moth-eaten "Ksitigarbha Jue" from the mass grave. The monks sneered at this yellow-level technique that even beggars found shabby, but they didn't know that the hands that had been eroded by the slave mark and pierced the spiritual veins were refining the turbid air that others had discarded like worn-out shoes into monstrous flames.
"Emotions? That thing has long been drained with the master's blood." When he cut open the Dantian of the monk who was blocking the road, he was still holding the love jade gifted by the other monk in his palm.
When he met Jiang Yuting in the far north ice field, the woman chopped off all his karma with one sword, but her temples were stained with the same scent of Sophora japonica that his mother had before she died.
"You swallowed too many dirty things." She put the broken blade against his heart, and the hundred thousand sword graves behind her screamed together. Long Yan suddenly found that he was actually counting the frost on her eyelashes - this was the first time in thirteen years that he had seen a living person's face clearly.
[Readers, please feel free to put forward any comments. If reasonable, you can consider modifying them. Thank you very much]
