The wind from the Yin Ruins ruins was wrapped in fine sand, hitting Song Yanheng's bleeding forehead, mixed with cold sweat and sliding into his collar, as cold as iron tempered with ice. The Shi Xi in his arms still retained the residual dragon energy of Qin Shihuang's shadow, and it was pressed against his chest warmly, but every step he took felt like he was stepping on a red-hot bronze tripod. In the light blue light frame suspended in the center of the panel, the two options of "repair the spaceship and leave" and "fuse the source core to become a new historian" were flashing alternately. The halo stung his retinas and made his temples jump.
