Pain! Excruciating pain! It was like there were countless red-hot knives, severing the bones inch by inch, cramping the muscles, and even the internal organs were crushed and crushed. Wu Zhankui suddenly jumped up from the chaos, and a hoarse roar burst out from his throat. The sound was as hoarse as a broken gong, with bloody foam stuck in his throat, and he coughed all over.
What he saw in front of him was not the mountain of corpses and the sea of blood, nor was it Zhao Wuji's disgusting face with a knife hidden in his smile, nor was it Liu Ruyan's bitch who stood aside and looked on coldly, without even the slightest pity, nor was it the hellish scene of those Xuantian Sect's bastards surrounding him, pulling out his tendons and peeling off his skin bit by bit.
He propped up his arms and looked down. He saw that his hands were young and tender, with clear joints and the thinness that a sixteen-year-old boy should have. They were not skinny and bloody after being tortured in his previous life. He was wearing a patched coarse cloth jacket, and the padding underneath him was dry and hard firewood, which made his back hurt. The tip of his nose was full of the musty smell of the woodshed, which was mixed with the smell of fireworks and was pungent.
