Shen Yan, a handyman of the Qingming Sect, was born without spiritual roots, but he touched the breathing "Soul Sutra" in the forbidden area. The pages of the book were seeping with blood, and the words screamed. The moment he licked off the blood drops, his fingertips were covered with tentacle-like red lines—the marks of devouring spiritual roots.
The sect's classics grow wings, the monk's eyes bleed with pus, Bai Lingxi's Qingxin Jue is chanted in reverse and spits out tentacles; Ye Qingyu's sword cries out a human face, and when it cuts someone, it will copy the opponent's fingerprints. When Shen Yan gnawed on the spiritual roots of his fellow disciples, countless small hands were clapping under his skin, and he heard his own laughter mixed with a hundred voices.
When the altar of flesh and blood swallowed up the entire mountain gate, and when the ascension was confirmed to be the digestion process of the evil god, this group of immortal cultivators finally understood: the so-called great road just allows you to laugh and dismantle yourself into parts, and then assemble them into something indescribable.
And Shen Yan stood on the top of the mountain of corpses, with the red lines on his chest opening into a mouth, gnawing at his last bone called "humanity"
