Cold. Biting coldness.
In the deepest dungeon of Tianyuan Holy Land, the air was filled with a disgusting smell of blood and mold. The thick thousand-year-old black iron chain clattered as it nailed a young man covered in blood to the dark torture rack in a large shape.
"Cough... Cough cough..."
Chu Ye coughed violently. Every time he coughed, black blood spurted out from the bone-deep wound on his chest. He raised his head with difficulty, and his face, which was originally so handsome and so handsome that countless female disciples in the Holy Land could only dream of, was now as pale as a dead person. But in his eyes, there was a palpitating chaotic light.
